He didn’t explain the science of crop rotation to me. Not that I would have understood. But I did recognize when we took a different path to the tractor, one summer to the next. All he said, my grandfather, when I pointed to where I thought we walked the year before was, “That field needs to rest.” 

I was best friends with Sheri and Jan in the first grade. When we were in sync, it was fantastic. Jumping rope. Bike rides. Breathless stories with flashlights under the covers of curfew. But “three is always tricky” my grandma explained, as I cried having turned into the one of “two against.” We had all spent our time in that rotation of being the one left out. And it seemed endless when you were in it. 

I never saw my grandfather angry. I had heard stories, so I knew that it could happen. But it was never directed at me. And certainly never at the fields. “It’s the nature of things,” he said. Never faulting one field’s need to rest. I suppose it was this that brought me the most comfort — to not fight the timing. I smiled with him, as we walked through the dirt. He asked me about school, it having just ended for the year. He asked about my friends, “We’re resting right now,” I said. He shook his head. He understood. He felt like my summer friend.

Our fruit trees in the yard seem to be taking the year off. I love them. We’re still eating the jam from last year. Next year will come all too soon. I nod to myself, taking comfort in the sweet nature of things, my summer friend.