The Pyramid of Summers

Arthur sat on the back porch, the familiar crack of the bat drifting through the open window. Baseball on the radio—still, after all these years. Martha had always preferred it that way. 'The pictures we imagine are better than anything on that television,' she'd say, though she'd secretly watched the cable broadcasts in the kitchen when she thought he wasn't looking.

He smiled, remembering how she'd arranged her tomato plants in the garden—not in neat rows, but in a rough pyramid shape, her 'method to maximize the morning sun.' The neighbors had thought it peculiar. Arthur had thought it was perfect.

'Tomatoes don't care about geometry,' he'd teased.

'But they do care about love,' she'd replied, bending to tuck another plant into the earth. 'And this pyramid? It's going to feed us through September.'

She'd been right. She usually was.

Now, three years after she'd passed, the garden still bloomed. Not with tomatoes—Arthur's back couldn't manage that anymore—but with marigolds and zinnias, still planted in that pyramid formation. Every morning, he sat here with his coffee and watched the sun climb over the roof, just as she had.

The baseball game continued in the background. Some things anchored you.

His granddaughter, Emma, visited yesterday. She'd pointed at the flower pyramid. 'Grandpa, why do you plant them like that?'

'It's how Grandma did it,' he'd said simply.

Emma had studied him, then the flowers, then nodded slowly. She was twelve now, old enough to understand that some traditions weren't about logic—they were about love, handed down like an heirloom, fragile and precious.

The cable repairman had come this morning, frowning at the outdated wiring. 'Everything's going wireless these days, mister. Why bother with all this?'

Arthur had patted the wall where the cable ran, hidden behind the wallpaper Martha had selected in 1972. 'Because my wife chose this. Because she's still here, in small ways. Because some connections shouldn't be broken.'

The young man had paused, then finished the job without another word.

Now the sun crept higher. The baseball announcer's voice rose as someone hit a home run. The pyramid of flowers glowed golden in the morning light. Arthur finished his coffee and stood up slowly, his knees creaking.

'Time to water the pyramid, Martha,' he said softly to the empty air. 'The tomatoes would be proud.'