Linda M. Hasselstrom

It’s not spring yet, but I can’t wait anymore. I get the hoe, pull back the snow from the old furrows, expose the rich dark earth. I bare my hand and dole out shriveled peas, one by one. I see my grandmother’s hand, doing just this, dropping peas into gray gumbo that clings like clay. This moist earth is rich and dark as chocolate cake. Her hands cradle baby chicks; she finds kittens in the loft and hands them down to me, safe beside the ladder leading up to darkness. I miss her smile, her blue eyes, her biscuits and gravy, but mostly her hands. I push a pea into the earth, feel her hands pushing me back. She’ll come in May, she says, in long straight rows, dancing in light green dresses.