Little Pea
One hundred word story
Nov 1 · 1 min read
I remember like it was yesterday. I stand barefoot in the grass, picking the browned pigeon pea pods off the vine. My grandmother stands next to me, holding battered tin roasting pan catching the peas I toss inside. She sings to herself as I fill the pot as fast as my little hands allow. I tag behind my grandmother and sit with her on the bench inside our porch, the pan between us. Our fingers turn black, shucking the peas out of the pods. Drinking ice-cold limeade and watching the pan as it slowly fills, my heart fills with love.

