Here he comes.

Today, David picked nearly all of our remaining carrots.  He said later he thought Carmen might want some.  I think he really just needed an excuse to treat himself to the jollies of pulling up a bunch of pretty little carrots, all winter in the making.  He brought his harvest upstairs, and washed and scrubbed the carrots in the sink, tickley-soft tops still on.  He offered three to me and Carmen two, then ate the rest, even the tiny ones.

He says he left some for later.  What, like, two?

He’s already planning what we might put in that square next.  “Vegetables,” he says.  “Not plants.”  “Oh,” I asked him this evening, “what vegetables?”  He furrowed his brow, a serious little man discussing serious little things.  “Carrots.”