There is a photo that exists of four generations of women. 
Me, a tiny tot, legs dangling from the chair,
My mother and her mother and her mother’s mother.
We pop open pea pods to reveal the lovely green gems. 
My bucket is light, the tiny trophies finding themselves
Over and over again into my mouth. 
This year I am growing peas to remind myself that I can, 
To emulate the summers that were spent
A thousand miles away, with the cattle and the peace.
I worry that I may never make it back.
I wonder who is planting the garden. Is there one?
Am I the last girl to be perched at that dining table?
The sun beats down on my crawling vine.
I too want to cling to something, to someone. 
Hold me up, make me drink, split me open. 
I long to be as cozy as the peas in this pod, 
Tucked together as if we’ll never leave.