Last summer, on a sweltering day at the farmer’s market much like today, we bought a massive watermelon, the very last one at the stand we’ve been going to now for over ten years. We tried fitting it into the stroller with our son, but it was just too big. So we gave the stroller seat to our watermelon, readjusting all the parts as if we were carrying a newborn, and laughed. We laughed with unconstrained joy in our throats, and beamed as our son’s little legs carried him the whole way home.
Was this the day we bought the plums for the brandy, too? At our son’s baby naming, we served a homemade brandy my husband had been fermenting for months. I asked that he do the same for our daughter. When he finally tucked the jar away in the bar cabinet and told me it would be ready in two weeks and three months, I smiled broadly. Two weeks and three months, by chance, was our daughter’s exact due date.
Today Tim is back at his stand at the farmer’s market. It’s been a couple of months now, awaiting news. We ask if congratulations are in order, and he beams as he pulls out his phone to show us a picture of his newborn daughter.