I just bit into a green bean, picked fresh from the box out back.
I am 10 years old. I’m shucking corn on the tiny deck outside my parents’ kitchen. Errant strands of corn silk float lazily through the air to hang on the azalea bushes below. Inside, we have chicken cordon bleu with big, yellow ears of corn and green beans. Slabs of butter slide, kernel by kernel, down the corn to collapse, exhausted, on the clean white plate.
We devour the meal. Afterwards, Mom strides out of the kitchen holding a chocolate cake. The cicadas sing. This is summer.