I went looking for a seed receipt and found the notes I'd made about a greenhouse, which sent me off checking prices again even though I still hadn't found the receipt. The greenhouse in my head is always just the frame and that lovely extra bit of growing time. On the page there's water, somewhere to put it, and whether we'll still have the same land when it finally makes back what it costs. I can remember a seed packet price from months ago but these bigger amounts slide around like they belong to somebody else. I closed the prices and kept searching the drawer. The receipt was folded inside an envelope I'd already checked, apparently not very well.

My little sister said she might not come for the whole visit we'd planned because her friend was having people over that weekend. She's thirteen, of course she wants to see her friends, and I said sure, we can figure something out, but I was hurt in this embarrassingly young way, like I hadn't been picked. I'd already been saving things I thought we'd do together, not big things, a swimming spot and a place with good fries. Now I keep wanting to tell her about them so she'll choose us, which feels worse. I'm still glad she's coming for some of it. I just wish I'd waited to get so excited before the dates were actually settled.

I was sorting the soft peaches for jam and kept wiping my hands on the same damp patch of my shirt, which was clearly not doing anything, the juice had dried sticky between my fingers and every bit of fuzz found it. The kitchen was warm and I had my boots off, standing on the cool strip of floor by the back door whenever there was room to shift over. I like handling fruit but after a while even the nice smell gets too thick and I need plain air. I went out on the porch with both hands held away from me like I couldn't be trusted to touch anything, then washed up properly. Cold water right up to my elbows felt ridiculously good.