Monday morning.

Thick fog. Humid. Warmer than usual.

All comfort.

Banana bread with chocolate chips.

We drop off two and the head to the doctor’s office. It’s a quiet ride. I turn up Dua Lipa.

I look at the X-rays as she takes them. Nothing abnormal. Not surprised.

So freaking hot on the front porch.

Down the mountain. Up the mountain. Down the mountain.

I think she and I are thinking the same thing even though neither of us are saying it.

He doesn’t think I can do it.

Something tells me to look and see. Things have changed. A ping of sadness that we are no longer sharing these kinds of things—that we no longer share anything at all.