BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

Mary Oliver

I remember fingering bean seeds in the lint of a deep coat pocket.

Surrounded by iron railings and brick flats , I was particularly entranced by the dark recesses of a white slightly lilting porch.

That I was crawling out of the sun's reach didn't occur to my six year old scabby knees and hopeful heart as an issue, any more than the fact that they were lima beans I dug in, lovingly shared from my brother's plate.

Not pole or scarlet runners, but processed , cooked, and served with carrots and peas.

On other days I added dried navy beans , suddenly aware that the damp mud under my nails and in the folds of slouching socks was beautiful.

That I was wearing a secret.

Most days I played hopscotch and barbie, and school. I coloured and dressed my paper dolls and dreamed of canopy beds , locket necklaces and carriage rides.

I didn't climb trees or fences or even the forbidden staircases that grew up like vines with drying laundry leaves up and down those Montreal streets, providing escape routes for tag games.

But these diamonds of letting go and waiting for it to come back, felt like song lyrics of dreams to come true.

They smelled like the laughter layered in pine needles around a cottage. Like a soup ladle carefully running along the top of the pot to catch drips of shelled peas and pulled up carrots.

Just a prayer of giant snowflakes and star lit bedroom nights. Bedtime's steepled fingers could bring the tiniest little green piece of forever pushing up through the rain of a morning.

I'm sure when we moved yet again, I quickly forgot about those doomed plantings.

But the seeds of something grew.