I think I planted the peas in April. Although that seems wrong. Considering the weather. The state of mind.

I am sure I went to the garden store. Ambled the tiny aisles looking for myself in what was offered.

I still wasn’t sure of myself. Wanted the idea of growth to invigorate me. Something worth the effort.

Peas in a packet are forgettable. White pills. Dried up. Sad.

I took them home. Put them in the shed. Left them for a while.

Tried to deal with everything else.

One day when the clouds cleared I went out and made tiny drills.

Stuffed the anaemic hard little pills into the cloddy soil.

I went away.

I came back now and then and looked.

A bit of a growth in a green sign. I walked away again.

Sometime later I went back to the garden store to buy some

bamboo sticks to support.

The growth.

I watched the growth from the window. Saw the greening.

The curl. The way it has its own mind.

I was proud. No denying.

I waited for August. One night. Before dinner.

The plan. Lamb steaks. A bit of Kale — roasted

in the oven. A tad of basmati.

I had anticipated that. I picked the peas.

Bent down into the wet grass from rain-

picked like a mad woman anxious to fill

the colander.

Picked.

Picking I thought about my life. Conversations.

Mixed life things. Complicated.

You know.

Surely if you are reading this.

Peas can do that. Make you think about what

went wrong-and right.

Peas are so solid and forgiving and pure.

You can make the worst mistake and peas somehow

come to the rescue.

I sauté onion and lardons and garlic and add peas

and stock and wild mint and here I am admitting

myself to the reader.

Life is just that. Podding peas. In August.

Thinking. Imagining. Wanting something

more to come.