Labor

They toiled in the garden of a morning, a thermos of tea at the ready (sitting on the back porch steps), although calling it "toil" was a bit of a disservice. Yes, it could be hard work and, yes, it could be pointless, but labor sometimes was (the part you could see). The actual effort built character; the trust - misplaced or not - was something hope frequently used (for other challenges); and it was exercise, which was good for them (especially at this age). They did not mind that the garden was small, for small things can be remarkably splendid, and they had agreed (a zillion years ago, when young) that their home should be a sanctuary. It was Edgar who had rebuilt the garden wall with stone and rebar; it was Dolores who had turned most of it into a working farm and the food (while modest) was present and sustainable. They had moved the chickens to the back spare room on the second floor of the little cottage, added sound- and waterproofing (walls and floor), with special lights (courtesy of Amazon, when they were still delivering) and that had worked out nicely; having them in the garden squawking away drove the neighborhood zombies completely mad, and it was unnerving to see them grey-eyed and grasping at the perimeter fence. "I like laboring in the garden with you; I always have," Edgar said to her (his hair, now white, still falling out of its cap across one eye). "And I like that you like it," Dolores responded with a smile. "I always have." They continued to toil in the garden until midday, a thermos of tea at the ready.