Green beans

Green beans taste like home.

Raw green beans taste like Grandma’s kitchen.

Snacking and chatting in the sticky June heat.

It was Grandma and, Grandad’s house then.

It was just days before our world as the three of us came to its blissful end.

Before everything came crashing ahead.

The three musketeers,

Honourable through deep, tipsy conversations over delicious dinners and an ever lasting love.

Snoozy summer days on the deck chairs,

With our books and our mid-day cider,

Unknowingly about to be obsolete.

Maybe I knew it subconsciously,

Those snoozy naps were always abrupt with a sharp jolt.

Maybe a nod at our day time drinking,

Or maybe something more.

Something more astrological.

A sixth sense,

that my partner in crime,

my fellow red wine loving, drunk crier, top listener to all of my jokes,

who was my closest friend,

my ultimate fan,

Was about to be obsolete, too.

Maybe that’s why I drink red wine so much,

Because it makes me feel closer to you.