One recent sunny visit to the pea patch, and come to find that late blight had ripped through the tomatoes after a heavy September rain. Just the decomposing skeletons of plants were left, not even a salvageable tomato.

It was a season of mostly unfulfilled promises. The cayenne peppers are still green and raw as grass. The beans are huge swollen pods swaying from vines. Late-planted sweet peas won’t flower before frost. Come October, it’s hard not to feel a little bit wistful for all that wasn’t.

But then the Biscuit hardly minded. While I pulled weeds and pruned plants she toddled about sampling chard and basil and putting cherry tomatoes into a basket, only to decide they were better on the ground. Not that it’s all sweet and leisurely. Our most recent visit she seemed happily entertained, and come to find dahlia pollen smeared across her forehead and the tomatillos trampled upon.

Whoops — time to pack up. Off to thump pumpkins in the Children’s Garden and wave at the giant nodding sunflowers. I know she won’t remember any of it, she’s just too young. Still. In these days before memory, maybe something will speak to her soul.

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