Ripe tomatoes are falling off the vine. A single yellow swallowtail wings by, looking for zinnia and the last of the petunia. The rising breeze carries the scent of breakfast. The unlatched screen door squeaks open, then slams shut. Dirty onions are sprawled on the porch floor waiting to be to braided and hung. It’s too hot to dig potatoes. From my porch chair I can see the fat orange pumpkin that I’m hoping my grandson Bryce will come up the mountain to pick. I hear a car pulling off the Parkway, crunching up the long gravel driveway. I’m hoping it’s not for me.