Until I was eight I thought Sunday was called Sunday because you had to spend it in the sun. I thought that because I spent every single Sunday outside in the garden with Nana. The zucchini plants quickly became my favorite. It was the way the tiny little delicate tendrils reached out and wrapped around the lattice, like tiny fingers holding on as tightly as they could. They seemed so helpless. I would sit on the ground and tend to them, sensing that they needed me.
Nana would sit there, perched on her gardening stool, looking at the tomatoes in the same way.
“Nana,” I asked one day, “should I take off all these little yellow flowers?”
“Why would you take the flowers off?” she asked gently.
“Well, I thought they might attract the bugs and then the bugs might eat them.”