
He disappeared yesterday into the garden, and when I found him to ask his help cutting broccoli, he said, “Grampy P, I can’t! I’m racing snails.”
And there he was, at the business end of the wheelbarrow with (he named them) Slimer, Gumbo, and Turbo, chugging up the sloped end. … “Broken Shell is dead, so he’s out,” Wyatt announced, pointing to an undignified heap at the wheelbarrow bottom.
I went to pick broccoli, suddenly seeing through a child’s eyes.