I do the dishes. She pulls up next to me with "He forgets to wear his glasses is the problem."

He's right behind her. "What? What are you saying about me?"

"It's a secret."

"She says you—and what do you say about her? Something she doesn't do?"

"No comment," he says, heading for his pipe and chair.

We laugh.

He pauses. "What's that? Washing clothes again?"

"A woman's work is never done," I say.

He says over his shoulder, "A man's work is never done either."

My mother explains he's mad she's washing because it's his job to hang out the clothes.

Clothes in, she sits down to play a hymn one-handed. My father listens. I sneak out to hang the clothes while he hums "Abide with Me."

"Look, the marigolds have come up. It's only been 2 days," she says, holding an egg carton in her hands for me to see.

"Oh, what a good idea," I say. "That's what I'll do."

"Yes," my father pipes in from his chair in the living room where he still makes smoke rings, "I read tons of books on gardening and get lots of good ideas."

"This was my idea," my mother exclaims.

"Yes, I know," he says, giving her credit, "but I read about it, too." "I knew you were a farmer's daughter," he's quick to add.

"And all the cow ma-nure," she laughs. "Yes, there's the proof," she says, pointing to the painting of the big brick farmhouse where she was born.

Soon they both call me to come quick to the door. "Look," my father beckons. We three peek out to hear a bird peep and peck at a large breadcrumb my mother threw out. We laugh at the bird who didn't know what to do with more than a mouthful.

They are not prepared for my going. When I leave, my father will carry my suitcase to the car. He'll stand back and wave with his pipe. My mother will hang behind at the door. I'll close the car door. We won't look at each other, at the tears falling down our turned-away faces as we separate ourselves.