And one day, somewhere in the summer, when the seeds had turned to blooms had turned to harvest, she sent him two tomatoes the purpled red of well and truly kissed lips. Some translucent white onions, swollen baby’s fists at the base of long, sweet stems. A handful of small potatoes shining golden yellow through the earth that still swaddled them. There was no reason to. He had his own garden, well tended beneath another, equally beneficent sky. No reason, but her heart insisted there was need.