How about a picnic lunch? I text to the teen, imagining sandwiches in wax paper envelopes, apples, a bag of chips we can share. I'm thinking of the park with the Japanese garden, really just a tiny island in a coulee with a lantern-like sculpture, gift from Awano, our Sister City, where last week we watched two geese herd nine goslings away from a trio of too-curious boys. In the end: drive-through chicken nuggets and a brief cloudburst. We eat in the car at a different park. Frustrated disc golfers huddle under trees. He scrolls through his phone, shows me a new artist who draws anthropomorphic bugs in interspecies relationships of diverse romantic orientations. We pool our knowledge of cryptocurrency in an attempt to understand. The clouds move on, we power down windows. A breeze blows the small lime green flowers of ash trees into the car. I assume, he says, there's a chemical reason why it smells so good after rain. It's called petrichor, I say. It's so cool, he says, there's a word for that. I wish I knew a word for everything.