And Brent?
Most Friday mornings, he’s at Dad’s house before four, helping load the truck.
He drives while Dad gives directions, and he carries the heavy boxes up stairs that my father can no longer manage.
Dad turned eighty this spring.
When he needed heart surgery, the entire community helped plant the garden while he recovered.
Even Brent was there, working with dirt beneath his fingernails.
Last Saturday, twenty-three vehicles arrived at sunrise.
A new family stood uncertainly at the end of the driveway, a tired young couple with a little boy.
Brent approached them.
“First time here?”
The father nodded awkwardly.
“Someone told us we could get vegetables…”
“Of course,” Brent replied. “Come on in.”
He handed them a bucket.
The little boy looked across the endless rows of green plants.
“Who owns this garden, mister?”
“Mr. Lindqvist and his late wife started it.”
The boy considered that.
