To eat fresh, sweet, peas has become, to me, a symbol of life; of summer; of positivity and all that hug-the-trees, love-one-another philosophy. I didn’t even realize this until I didn’t have them. That is what made me contemplate them for far longer than I would have, should have, but it is nowhere near the same eating them.
It’s hard to remember that exact feeling of cracking open a plump pod, that slight scent of earth and how, when biting into this tiny seed, the taste fills the mouth. It’s not a juice, or water; it’s like a breeze after a rain, and it’s incredible.

The last time I grew them was the year I wandered away. A strange summer of grey, rained on afternoons and sun-baked evenings. The peas loved it: surging up netting, hanging over fences.
Bursting, full, and too green.

Everyday I munched them fresh and every night I cooked them with everything. Even then I gave them away in handfuls. Funny how here, a place I so long sought after, I can’t find them anywhere.

I just wish for one small thing.