she is telling you where she planted the arugula and you stop and ask her to say it again. she is mispronouncing it, but the word in her voice it is the shape of the leaf in the air. she says it over and over until you kiss her and swear you taste it on her breath.
you pad out into the garden with the chipped bowl you snuck from the kitchen. the sun has just risen and the grass is cold under foot, damp between your toes. you drop to your knees to pick berries, the tips of your fingers staining as you fill the bowl. you stand slowly and stretch when you hear the door open and shut behind you. she comes down the path with a mug in each hand and you smile, all wet feet and pink fingers in the morning light.