Sometimes I catch myself under the glassy glow of the strung lights, in wide open space, sitting at a table at least a mile long. We’re eating vegetables that I grew and canned last season. It’s dusk. The wind doesn’t blow here. Our steps are deliberate and the place settings are perfectly imperfect. The linens have been pressed and the food never grows cold. That’s when I trip over a booby trap, a little landmine Hallie set up before nap time. Expletive. I nearly drop my phone, losing my place on my Instagram feed—where the daydream started.  Read more