Steve Andrews
Sun Prairie, Wisconsin, USA

Peas on a Knife

dandelion puff balls
on the farmhouse lawn
full of wishes

I remember watching with fascination as he moved the knife across the dinner plate, picking up just the right amount of mashed potatoes as it headed for the green peas. Then, when a line of peas had been swept into the potatoes, the knife blade came up and disappeared into his mouth. I tried to imitate him, but usually ended up with mashed potatoes on the table and peas rolling on the floor. My mother told me to stop playing with my food and that some mysterious hungry child in Europe would be grateful for such a meal.

He had sold the farm to his son-in-law, my father, the summer after World War II ended when I was five years old and had moved to the tiny house he owned in a nearby village. Each morning thereafter, his old Plymouth rolled up the farm driveway and he began his day of cutting weeds and fixing fences. On rainy days, he and I spent hours in the tool shed straightening bent nails, a task he had deemed essential during the Great Depression and the war years that followed. I waited for those rainy days.

sipping rainwater
on the cow path
one sparrow