At 7 a.m. someone knocked on the door. It was one of the construction guys, telling me that today was the day they'd be digging a chunk out of my garden. I did not cry but I came close to crying. Instead, I went outside right away and moved plants and rocks and then hid my eyes till the deed was done. I thought that would be the worst of it. But then, after lunch, another knock on the door. They'd nicked the sewer line and they needed to get into my basement to make sure the house line hadn't been damaged. Up and down the stairs the men went; then soon, a specialist showed up, with a sewer-line camera. He walked in and announced with a big smile, "I put in your sewer line!" Okay, so that was a bright spot: seven years ago we'd accidentally hired the Expert. He bustled around down there for a while and then reappeared to pet the flirty cat and assure me that the house line was fine; the only damage was streetside. Good news overall, but this meant that they were going to have to dig another chunk out of my garden to reseal the connection.

So.

I realize a damaged vegetable garden is the smallest of my problems right now, but still it feels tragic. I am not crying; I'm even laughing a little. But still.

And yet, small things: the construction guys were so nice and so apologetic, eager to help me move rocks and plants. You could tell they had gardens at home, or their parents had gardens: they took the damage seriously; they understand why this was painful.

At one point, in the evening, I looked out the window and saw that the excavator had pushed the chunk of sidewalk they'd removed down against some of the parked equipment. And on top of that chunk was a bright blooming clump of my thyme, which just this morning had been flowing over the stone along the walkway. So after dinner I went outside to the shed and fetched my shovel and started over to rescue it. As it happened, one of my neighbors was already there, lifting up the chunk. I'm a forager, and I thought, Oh, he's going to stick it in his yard; great. I was glad to know he wanted it. But no. What he was doing was carrying it back to my garden. He didn't know I was outside getting ready to fetch it, but he did know that I would care about it.

This was the sweet ending to a very tough day. And a sweeter one was the late-night text from my sister saying that my dad got through the second surgery very well, and is now on the first step to recovery.