A backyard family gathering, our first since last summer. My mother struggling to sit in her chair, a pinched nerve or spasmed muscle has had her taking painkillers every four hours. My dad’s eyes rheumy as he awkwardly serves beer and lemonade; he’s not used to being the host.

Here, back in the rhubarb patch, I can forget about their aging. The pandemic. The unbearable sadness of life and death. The rhubarb has been here my entire life. How many stalks have I pulled from this plant? How many times have I clambered up this wall, placing my foot on that rock and gripping the fence in the same practiced way.

So much in my life changes so frequently, and yet somehow I still have this anchor. The rhubarb patch and the chickadee emerging from the birdhouse high on the pole and the towering cedar tree and my parents voices and my sister there and a bald eagle riding on the wind current high over our heads.

After the sun sets, back in the apartment with Russell, I slice the rhubarb and store-bought strawberries into a casserole. Add crumble topping. Slide it into the oven.