The sun presses gently on my back. It’s late spring, so the heat doesn’t feel too harsh, more like the reassuring weight of an arm resting on my shoulders. The weeds have crept their way toward the perennials in the garden bed. I stand there, hands on my hips, looking at the dirt, assessing what needs to be done and how much effort cleaning out this portion of my parents’ yard will require. I’m only in town for a couple of days, and I don’t want to leave my newly widowed dad* with a half-finished chore.