Yesterday I picked rocks from a secret rock garden that’s only known by spiders, the mosquito mafia, and a few select humans. I drove my wheelbarrow through leaves a foot thick to get them from their secret garden resting place to the bed of my truck. It took seven trips. Then I brought them home and set up the border for the sun plants.

The sunscreen went on my head. And on my chest. And SPF 70 over my tat, because I’m still paranoid about the fade.

I didn’t have anybody to do my back, though. And so it’s red. Like a hot crimson sunset. I’d call myself a redskin, but I’m worried that might be racist.

When Honey or Rothko crosses the rock threshold, I yell “OUT!” And they put their ears back against their heads. And they wonder why the old pee spot is now off limits.