The snap

The bowl sits between us,
cool enamel chipped in places
where time pressed too hard.
The peas wait inside their green jackets,
fat as little secrets.
We snap them open one by one,
thumbs working without needing to think.

The rhythm starts to steady the morning.
Pop.
Slide.
Drop.
A soft music older than my memory,
older than the porch itself.

Mamaw’s hug lingers on my shirt,
a blend of flour dust
and the lavender she keeps on her dresser
in a jar she never empties.
The smell holds me in a way nothing else can,
a reminder that love is not loud.
It settles on you like warm rain
and stays there long after the clouds drift on.

Her hands move quicker than mine.
They always have.
Wrinkles folding like the hills
beyond the soybean fields.
She does not teach with words.
Her lessons are tucked inside the work.
Patience.
Steadiness.
The truth that small tasks
keep the heart from unraveling.

I watch her snap another pod.
The peas scatter into the bowl
like tiny green prayers.
She smiles without looking up
as if she can hear my thoughts,
as if the porch boards whispered them to her
through the soles of her slippers.

The world beyond the yard feels wide today,
wide enough to pull at me
with its bright untamed edges.
But here, the morning is slow
and sure
and filled with the smell of her hug
woven into the air like a blessing.

I wonder how long I can stay
in this gentle place
where time bends instead of breaks,
where the work is soft
and the love is certain.

Mamaw nudges the bowl toward me.
We still have rows to finish.
I reach for another pod,
feel the green split under my thumb,
feel the quiet truth settle in my chest.

Some traditions hold you close.
Some open you just enough
to let the future in.