I pointed at the box.
“Are you sick?”
Her face changed. “What?”
“Just tell me.”
“Are you sick?”
“No, I’m not sick.”
“Then why are you burying letters to us? Why is Dad’s name on one?”
Mom stood and brushed dirt from her gloves.
“You followed me 40 miles out of town, Monica?”
“I’ve watched you barely use that car for two months, except every Sunday when you vanish before sunrise.”
“Then why are you burying letters to us?”
“I wasn’t vanishing.”
“You told me you were practicing.”
“I was.”
“To come here?”
She glanced toward the garden behind her.
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t vanishing.”
I stepped closer to the hole.
“What is this?”
“A time capsule.”
I stared at her.
Mom pointed toward the planted sections beside the fence.
“What is this?”
“It’s a memory garden project. The sealed capsules are opened after five years.”
“Five years? Mom, you’ll be 87.”
“I certainly hope so.”
