Childhood Memory of Ma's Garden

Plucking Beans

The scent of a hot dusty day, accented by the steady buzzing of cicada's and crickets singing praises to the heat.

Rustling around the leaves of a plant, my fingers wrap around the top of a green bean. With a firm *snap!* if comes off clean from the stem. I drop the bean into the old Kemps Ice Cream bucket and adjust myself to relieve the pressure of the hard soil digging into my knees and shins.

With another *snap!* I break away the next green bean, but not so cleanly, for dampness moistens my finger tips. I feel the fuzzy skin, pop the bean to my mouth, and crunch down on it. Juice and crunch. This is how green tastes.

The sun beats down on arms and back, sweat making me itch. I have to bat at the mosquitos and hear a familiar drone. But the sound isn't from the mosquitos. No, the drone is coming from the motorcycle of my brother's curly dark haired friend, Pat, coming up the gravel driveway.

Now what's that sound?
Oh.
It's the beating of my 13 year old heart.