Wednesdays are for Henry

Wednesdays are for Henry.  We fly solo one day a week, with Jane in school all day.  Today we took the first trip of the season to Frerich’s, a bohemian, rambling kind of farm – with musky greenhouses, packed dirt floors, cement Buddha’s, dense seedling flats, roaming cats, and a bevy of rusting tractors.  Lots of good places to get dirty.  We dressed for rain, the sky goose gray, light - forgiving and calm.  I was so happy to have my boy tucked in tow, the prospect of filling the trunk with flowers, and to take photos.  We hop out of the car, little legs fly – I stoop to shoot.  Nothing.  I try again, twirling the aperture dial.  I have a vision of the memory card tucked neatly into the computer spitting out raw files.

Pile in car, crying Henry.  He wants the farm.  It’s alright, I say.  Off we go.  I find a cereal bar swimming at the bottom of my bag.  Drive home, silence.  Grab memory card.  Drive back.  Swing open the door.  I blink and he’s off, my name trailing in the air behind him.