Post No.5. Saturday morning—the market.

June Oakcrest—still processing, honestly.

Dear Mom,

The market sits in the little square behind the church, and it was exactly as Dot described. There were stalls piled with vegetables and jars of homemade preserves. A woman sold honey beneath a hand painted sign. The bread seller had already sold half his stock by the time I arrived at nine thirty. 

The whole place smelled of damp hearth, cold morning air, warm pastry, and something herbal I couldn't identify. I stood at the entrance for a moment, taking it all in. I had the plant journal tucked in my bag.I was wearing your coat.

And for some reason I couldn't explain, it felt less like arriving somewhere new and more like returning to a place I'd forgotten. 

Dot found me in less than a minute.

I still don't know how she manages it. The square was crowded. I was standing quietly near the honey stall. Yet suddenly she was beside me, white bun perfectly arranged, already on the move.

"You came," she said, as if there had ever been any doubt.

There hadn't. 

Dot isn't really someone you say no to. She is the kind of person around whom things simply happen. 

She marched me through the market like a tiny, determined tour guide. 

"This is Jean, best carrots in the county, and he knows it." 

A few steps later:

"This is the preserves man. His name is also Jean." 

Dot laughed at this far more than seemed reasonable. 

We moved on.

"Here's the bread stall. Get here earlier next time." 

Then the seedlings. 

"Very good seedlings. Your mother used to…."

She stopped. Only for a second. A strange little smile crossed her face, as though she'd remembered something I couldn't see. Then she continued talking and steered me toward the honey. I made a mental note of it. One thing I noticed was that Dot never let me stand still for long. Her hand rested lightly on my elbow—not holding me, just there. Steady. Guiding. 

At one point, I glanced toward the corner where the old stone wall met the church steps. A man was standing there. He had a phone in his hand but wasn't looking at it. He wasn't shopping. Wasn't talking to anyone. Wasn't looking at any stall in particular. He was standing there, watching. He didn't look away when our eyes met. Most people would have. He simply kept looking, as though he were assessing something. Uncomfortable, I looked away. Dot's hand tightened on my elbow. Only slightly. The change was so small I might have imagined it. Then she launched into a very detailed explanation about the seedling seller and how she'd probably give me extra plants if I asked nicely. Before I could think about the man again, we were already moving toward the vegetable stalls. 

At the far end of the square was a small folding table with a thermos of coffee, a cake stand, and an elderly man reading a newspaper with such concentration that he appeared entirely unaware of the market around him.

Dot steered me toward it with the quiet certainty of someone who had already decided what I needed. 

"Carrot cake," she said.

Not a question. 

The carrot cake was extraordinary—dense and warm with cinnamon and nutmeg and something darker. Spice and sweetness settled warmly on my tongue in the cold morning air. I took one bite and immediately understood why Dot brought me there. I told her it was the best I'd ever had, and she nodded as though this was simply a fact and then handed me a second piece before I'd finished the first.

We stood together eating the cake and watching the market and I thought—this is nice. Just nice. I'd come down the hill expecting questions and secrets and half-finished stories. Instead there was carrot cake and coffee and people arguing cheerfully about vegetables. It was oddly comforting. 

"You look like her," Dot said, not looking at me. Still watching the market. I didn't ask who. We both knew. "The eyes," she added. "The way you stand. Like you're listening to things the rest of us can't hear." 

I didn't know what to say to that, so I ate my cake and didn't interrupt. 

After a while I took the journal out of my bag and showed it to her. She held it carefully—not fearfully, but with the familiarity of someone handling something important. She opened it near the middle without hesitation and stopped on a page filled with sketches of a plant, I didn't recognize. Narrow leaves. Tiny starlike flowers. 

Her fingertips lingered on the paper. 

"I'd know her work anywhere," she said softly. 

"She always put more into these pages than drawings." 

Before I could ask what that meant, she added, "She was one of the best green whisperers I've ever met."

I waited for more. When she didn't continue, I babbled, "What's a green whisperer? Have you been friends with Mom for a long time? When was the last time you saw her?

Dot smiled into her coffee.

 "Ask Edmund."

Edmund? 

Dot looked at me steadily, then said, "Edmund, he worked with your mother for years. He knows the forest, the practices, the hill better than anyone living. He's not easy to find, but he's not hiding." She paused. "Tell him Dot sent you. And bring the journal." 

She patted my arm— her signature move, I'm beginning to understand it as a kind of blessing— and walked off toward the vegetable stalls without another word.

I stood there holding the journal and the last piece of my carrot cake.

Tell me, Mom—who is Edmund? 

Why does everyone in this town seem to know things about you that I don't. Not just the version of you I grew up with, but another version entirely. A version who filled journals with sketches and notes. A version who lived here alone for five years and knew exactly what she was doing. And why does nobody talk about your absence?

Before I left the square I looked back toward the corner where the man had been standing. He was gone. The church steps empty, the square returned to ordinary Saturday morning business. For a moment I wondered if I would have thought anything about him at all if Dot hadn't reacted. Maybe not. 

Still I found myself thinking about the way Dot had guided me through the market. The light pressure of her hand on my elbow. The way she always seemed to know where I should be standing next. Not frightened exactly. Just thoughtful. As though she's noticed something I hadn't or perhaps she was simply looking after me the way people do around here. I am not sure which. And I don't have enough pieces yet to decide. 

What I do have, apparently, is a name. Edmund. And a journal. And a growing certainty that you left far more of yourself on this hill than I realized.

Driving back up the hill with muddy boots, a bag full of vegetables, and considerably more questions than answers…

June 

P.S. I bought carrots from Jean. And preserves from the other Jean. 

P.P.S. The seedling woman became strangely quiet when I told her where I was staying. Then she gave me an extra bunch of plants and refused to explain why.

P.P.P.S. "A green whisperer" I've been turning the phrase over in my head all afternoon. It sounds impossible. And somehow, it sounds exactly like you.