By Jenna Rozelle
Beans don’t just walk off the field all bright and shiny.
They’ve been carried around the world
in our palms and pockets,
pressed into the warm soil of spring,
they may as well be prayers.
They get bowled over and rolled over
and shaken and polished and picked at
before they’re ready for Nana Hussey’s pot.
Every Sunday (or was it Saturday?) was bean day.
I can’t remember what kind she used –
Kidney, or Navy, or Soldier I think,
but I do know
there were pickles on a plate
and white bread
and soft butter
and squares of peanut butter fudge
and sometimes cups of custard in the fridge.
No thanks to me.
We’d go down to the basement after supper,
us kids
and make our fun with beano chips
and maybe Christmas tinsel –
spare parts
from that time, before –
stored away
for later.
I never once wondered
what the grown ups were doing upstairs
till now.
They were quiet.
I thought I put too much paprika in the pot this morning,
but by the time the beans were soft
the spice was softer.
My oldest friend brought me flowers,
our dogs wrestled and begged like children,
but not.
If I carry the vase around the house
to keep them in cool shadow,
will they last forever?
I’m rocking now
in a chair my mother sat in
with my brother at her breast,
my picking and polishing done for the day,
flowers hung to dry,
and the wood stove is warm
and the dishes are done
and I am quiet too.
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