HE tells me this morning "We need to plant the peas soon." It is a beautiful day. Clear, bright, twentyish. Full of promise, this Tuesday in March in spring.
He's right, of course. It's time for planting. I imagine his fingers: long, strong and tanned, they are pianist's fingers; buried deep in the earth. Tending the tiny vines, with only his faith to sustain them, like he sustains my fractious heart.
We argued last night, we hug this morning like drowning sailors clinging to a pylon. And the sun comes out, enough to warm the soil.
It's time for planting.
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