Bill Hogan / Chicago Tribune

Summer, we crammed in sun and sea and sand. Ice cream and tomatoes and zucchini. We packed up and dropped off: first one, then the other.

We looked at each other, puzzled. It had been 17 years since we’d been alone, together. We fled to Spain.

In Spain, we crammed in art and architecture and adventure. Soon we gave up on packing in and took up hanging out. We slept. We strolled. We sipped vermouth, with a cool breeze and warm guitar wafting over the rooftops.

We dined on fat chickpeas, tiny clams, hot sausage, thin ham. Every meal started with pa amb tomaquet — bread grilled golden and rubbed with fresh tomato. Pale, rosy, sweet.

We all came home flush with fresh stories and stale laundry. In the clamor, we toasted up a snack, and remembered the waiters rubbing tomato into bread, so strong, so serious about the art of letting go.