"Are you thinking about Papa?" I ask my son as I knead a sticky lump of dough. From the kitchen floor, my son looks up at me. He understands that I'm questioning him and that I've mentioned the name of his favorite man worldwide. He has no answer for me and turns back to his pile of kitchen utensils: a few red and black spatulas, a toaster oven insert, and canning jar grippers.

"I'm thinking about Papa."

I think of my husband when he's away at work. I think of elaborate and simple notes I would like to leave for him. Declarations of love and admiring prose. When I do leave him a note, it's often scrawl on scrap paper: IN GARDEN.

Moving like satellites. Life can be so busy. Never thinking of each other until the day is over.