I saw a woman today, she was walking past the community garden down near the old grange hall, the one they just revitalized, looks real nice actually, all those neat rows of kale and chard, everything so… vibrant. And she must have been in her fifties, maybe a little older, well-dressed, too, like she was coming from some kind of office job in town, probably a manager, I thought, because there’s a certain way they hold themselves, a kind of briskness, even when they’re just walking. And she stopped, just for a moment, and looked at those tomatoes climbing up their stakes, all those ripening fruit, and then she sighed, a real deep sigh that I could almost feel from where I was sitting on the bench, pretending to read the newspaper, but really just watching. And it put me in mind of something that I hadn’t thought about in years, not truly, not with that pang, you know? The kind that catches you right in the chest, like a sudden chill. It was when my sister, Mary, she was always the pragmatic one, the one who kept the books and made sure we ordered enough seed for the spring planting, she told me I had a touch of what she called “maladaptive daydreaming,” always off in my own head, she said, not paying enough attention to the actual work. And she was right, of course. I always preferred the planning, the drawing out of the garden plots, the envisioning of the bountiful harvest, much more than the actual back-breaking labor of it all. Though I did love the smell of the turned earth, that rich, dark loam, full of worms and promise. It was a good life, out there on the farm, even with the hard work and the long hours. We had a good farm, organic before it was fashionable, before anyone even knew what that meant, really, just good stewardship of the land, my father always said. We were part of something, a real part of the fabric of the community, everyone knew the Miller family, knew our produce, knew our ways. It was an identity, you see, not just a job. And then I left. I don't even remember the exact moment I decided, just a slow accumulation of small dissatisfactions, a feeling of being… constrained, I suppose. I wanted to see more than the same three fields, wanted to talk to more people than just the folks at the farmers’ market and the feed store. I went to the city, got a job in a bank, believe it or not. Numbers, not plants. And I did well, made good money, had a nice apartment, even bought myself a little convertible for a few years, red, it was, a real head-turner. But sometimes, when I’m alone in the evenings, especially now that all my friends are gone, or mostly gone, anyway, it’s just… quiet. And I think about Mary, still on the farm, still growing those perfect heirloom tomatoes, still complaining about the blight, still laughing with old man Henderson down the road about the price of corn. And I wonder if I made a terrible mistake. Because sometimes, living with the consequences, well, it’s not always what you thought it would be.