My Granddaughter Called Me At 2 A.m. From An Intake Office

in the afternoon, wearing an old sweatshirt of mine. She looked small in it.

She didn’t talk much. She just sat at the kitchen table, watching me water my tomato seedlings in the window.

“They look fragile,” she said, her voice husky from sleep.

“They are,” I answered, not looking up from my work. “But they’ve got good soil. That counts for a lot.”

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