We wander into your garden. You gather zinnias for me to celebrate, to mark absence, in a few weeks, your daughter and mine will leave home. Magenta maize orange coral, the petals chubby fingers curling opening grasping. You say: you must cut them back, so they will grow. Under a parasol, you pick white phlox for my bouquet, dark red-purple gladioli. Heat makes everything buoyant. We float on summer. You cut the top of a milk carton, fill it with water for my long journey home.