One day soon, they will appear. Their presence will be fleeting, their contribution sweeter for its shortness. They will sit among the usual, the mundane, and to many they will appear to be nothing special. But they are.
I first noticed them two seasons ago. Until then everything about that day was ordinary: walking the aisles, skirting table edges to prevent a cascade of bouncing and bruising, scanning for items on a list. While I appreciated all that lay before me – the bright colours, the crisp leaves, the smooth skins – it was all very normal.
And then I saw them.
Image credit: dreamstime
Small, green, perfect. I can hear the audible crack as they open and the stripping sound as I run my thumb down the centre, freeing each perky pea from its pointy shell. I can taste the ideal combination of sweetness and crunch as I bite into them. Each one is capped with a jaunty hat that reflects their place in my memory – a place of happiness and of sunlight.
I’m sentimental about these peas, even though they’ve left me with a scar.
I was two, or slightly older. About the age Connor is now. It was pea-shelling time at my Grandma’s farm – something not to be missed. In my memory I was running to get there, anxious to help and hoping for a taste. I burst through the open front door out into the sunlight, all my senses trained on the sweetness of those peas.
And not, unfortunately, on the rocky steps in front of me.
I went down, hard, a small girl in a frilly dress, and my forehead met jagged concrete. Instead of sweetness that day I got stitches and a scar.
Having been so young, my memories of this day are probably more through the telling of it than the truth (though my mother remembers it quite differently). Either way, I carry a vision in my mind of what that day was like. I remember my family, not my fall. I remember the sunshine, not the stitches. It’s a happy memory, bringing with it all the sweetness of sentimentality.
I look for them every year, those English peas. When I see them I stop and smile. I pause to touch my forehead and then buy a bag to share with my son.
Experimenting with a memory. Concrit welcome on this one.
