When I was a child, my parents called the last meal before one of us went away to camp or school the “deathhouse dinner.” It was meant to be a feast of the departee’s favorite foods and we four children posted notes in the fridge noting what we liked best. I always thought the name was morbid. It was as though they were sending us off to die. Last night the garden and I made dinner for Jack and Sam as they head off for three weeks of camp. The last of the peas, the first potatoes, the first cucumbers, grilled chicken. It was delicious and I thank the garden for blessing us with such bounty. But I have new insight into the “deathhouse” thing. It’s what my home will feel like while my children are gone. I will miss them so much and so will the garden, which will keep producing its bounty, but there won’t be enough of us to eat it.