Bare is the hill we begin our work.
 The sun rises, it’s brisk.
 He wears sun-bleached jeans
 Battered brown work boots
a jean shirt and hat.
 He reminds me of his father.
  
 I meet him at the crest.
  
 “We’ll plant six.”
  
 We begin positioning
 our shovels, the buckets.
 Bags of dirt line the hill’s edge.
 I look down to the bottom.
 The task feels daunting.
  
 We use our shovels and picks
 to help navigate our footing
 along the incline.
 We line up the trees
 I look to him to begin.
  
 I picture how he will recline
 on his worn, brown chair
 as he reflects on his day.
 He will look to
 the hillside.
 He’ll know he did what he could.
  
 “I’ll start digging.”
  
 I watch him.
 He uses the tools his
 father shared with him.
 Dirt caked on the handles 
 from decades of landscaping. 
  
 My father 
 tells me to fill the holes
to hammer in the stakes
to plant the bushes and trees
that soon will adorn his hillside.
  
 I carefully observe his process.
 His methods are intentional,
 techniques from the old country.
  
 I mimic the way he breaks ground
 His heal on the shovel’s end 
 the hard dirt breaks.
 We strike red clay 
 Pennsylvania’s bedrock.
  
 The sun rises over my father’s land.
 I hear him whistle as he works
sweat falls from his brow
his skin tan from a summer
 spent planting.
 He is his father’s son.
  
 Breathlessly, I announce,
  
 “We’re finished.”
  
 Six trees planted and watered.
 My stomach signals its hunger.
 It’s noon
 I climb to the top.
 My thighs burn and ankles itch
 from thorn scrapes and bug bites.
  
 “Let’s go for 12.”
  
 I feel anger rise within me.
 He’s never done working.
 I look at him
 as he drinks water.
 He assesses what’s left to finish.
  
 I run inside.
 Famished, I devour a banana,
 some toast.
 I consider retreating to my room.
 He did say six, after all.
  
 I reconsider
 I look out the bay window
the one his chair rests beside.
  
 He is digging a seventh hole.
 I hear the radio play on the patio below.
 Motown flows from the speakers.
 He smiles as he catches me watching.
  
 Resigned, I return to the hillside.
 I ask him what’s next.
 He tells me what to do.
 I finish the job 
 the way he’s instructed.
  
 It’s 3pm when we finish.
 We sit under the deck
 drinking fresh water.
 The radio wanes behind 
 my father’s breathing;
his satisfaction.
  
 “I’ll need to plant the front yard soon.”
  
 I take him in 
 he is already out of this moment
 and into the next.
  
 Years from now 
 I will witness my father 
 sitting in his chair 
 reading.
 He’ll look up once in a while.
 He’ll look to the hillside.
  
 I head inside to shower.
 The sun reaches its peak.
 I look out my bedroom window
 and see my father.
 He’s pushing a wheelbarrow.
  
 It’s winter now,
 I visit home and find him 
 sitting in his worn, brown recliner
 reading the newspaper. 
 He smiles when he sees me. 
 I sit on the arm of the chair
 I rest my hand on his shoulder.
  
 “Remember when you helped me?”
  
 We look over the hillside
  
 “I thought you said just six.”
  
 He smiles, knowingly
  
 “You finished the job with me.”
  
 He gazes over his hillside
 the one we made our own.
  
 We look at each other.
 He knows I remember.
  
 No longer bare
 the trees are growing,
taking space.
 Grass covers the land.
 We look over the hillside.
 He puts his arm around me.
  
 I realize now what he sees
 as he looks out the bay window.
 The trees flourish 
the leaves fall with the season’s mourning.
  
 He sees us on our hillside.