the wood of my grandfather's chairs is smooth under my hands. i can hear the rain starting on the tin porch roof.

he brought over a tomato. it's perfectly round and heavy in my palm. he told me his name was leo and asked if i wanted to walk by the creek sometime.

my throat went tight. a walk. what does a walk mean. a simple question becomes a map of potential failures.

i turn the tomato over and over. it is still warm from his garden. i look at the herbs i planted on the steps, the oregano finally taking root. i did that.

i don't know if i want to go. i don't have to know right now. the question just sits in the quiet room. for now, i will be here. i will slice this tomato for my supper and listen to the rain.