You used to plant out your young cabbages in May, after weeks of fussing over them. The little ones, you called them, with such fondness that I realized there must be something extra special about them. Not like the beets, which you planted straight in the ground. I feel an ache in my chest, and I close my eyes for a moment. “She’s not going to get better, you know,” Hans snapped when he found me out here late one evening the first summer after you moved.
