She woke us up whistling,
a tune she felt fit the morning.
She was practical, determined in her walk
unlike my sister and I, who let the buckets clamber against our calves.
The garden was dark, dew was still resting, quietly
the air was soft, warm, like blankets we had just left.
We stood over the bean patch, a vibrant green
in the blistering sun, a deep green in this early morning.
She told us to begin picking.
I begin;
lifting the plant to the side one way,
I pluck the strings like I was taught years ago
and toss them into my bucket.
I do the same, clumsy movement to the other side.
She is humming the same tune she whistled, farther ahead than I.
I watch her from the side,
her fingers move with swift, practiced movements
fingers strict, demanding and the beans, refusing to test her
not like they so often did with me
I study her hands, the bones prominent where her age has raised
the veins, the tendons;
though hers are stronger, stronger than mine will ever be.
I didn’t notice as she turned,
noticed me watching, still bent over the same patch
and looked at me, eyes easy, voice strong—
“Girl, get movin’,
You won’t want to be pickin’ when
the sun rises”
And I, refusing to test her,
fall into her words
like the beans to the pail
and pick some more.