I make my way over to the hard green tomatoes and twist them off their vines, placing them carefully in the used paper bag. I’m so busy prying the tomatoes, I don’t realize my dad has stopped until I finish and make my way to the zucchini. His back is to me, and he’s kneeling in the dirt, his hands covered in dark soil. I would almost think he’s praying by how still he is. As if he’s trying to stop time.

Quietly I make my way to the zucchini and pick every last little one. The leaves sting my hands as I lift them to look under and make sure I got everything. Then I move on to the cucumbers. I work around my dad and pull up everything from the garden, filling all the bags with vegetables we’ll probably never eat. The only thing that seems edible so far is the lettuce. I pull up the heads from their roots rather than pinch the leaves off like my mom does to keep them growing. Then the basil plants. And the cilantro. All of it. When I’m finished, the garden looks like it does when it’s ready to be planted at the start of summer. Loose soil in long, neat rows set and turned by my dad.

I bring all the bags to the van. It takes several trips, and each time, I pause and check on my dad. His back rises and falls slowly, but he doesn’t get up. Finally I finish and walk over to him. I put my hand on his shoulder in a gentle way, then kneel beside him. He brushes his face with the back of his hands and smears dirt across his forehead. We don’t talk, kneeling in the cool soil. Just sit in our garden and try to remember it as best we can. I hope someday soon we’ll have another home like this. Someday soon, we’ll be able to move out of that unfamiliar apartment and have a new old place to fix up and make memories in.

Eventually my dad gets up and holds out a soil-covered hand. I take it and he pulls me to my feet, and then into a long hug. I’m glad my dad and I don’t need words to say how we’re feeling.

“Do you want to go in for one last good-bye?” he asks me back at the van.

We both stare up at the old house.

“I don’t think so,” I tell him. “I don’t think I want to go in there now that everything that made it home is gone.”

“OK, honey. I understand.” He pats my back.