Sometimes they took the back roads because they wanted to take the roads that were nearly overgrown, because it was a risk, even if only a small one.
In the summer the grandchildren visited. Two girls and two boys, and they were all blonde.
At night before the mosquitoes came they sat on the bench at the dock.
They watered the garden in the early afternoons. The tomatoes were growing ripe and full, and were the biggest part of the garden.
They had a cross and a Buddha that they kept in the backyard. Under the sky.
They washed dishes in the evening, after dinner, side touching side, bent at the waist because the sink was too low.
When there was a funeral, they drove the car on the main roads, and before they’d go into a church they’d turn to each other and talk in low voices.
They painted the river on the weekends, and though they’d painted it over three-hundred times, and they knew every rock, submerged tree, and glittering beer can, they painted the river a different way each time, and they kept all the paintings, in a shed in the back. Even though they were old and missed their youth, and it was all the same eventually, they painted the river and each time it was different.