Dear Phil, Pop Pop, Pops,

It’s been a fast year since you left us.

But I planted the 6-Week Peas in the spring, just like I told you I would. Even as summer draws to a close, I check each morning for those delicate, purple blooms.

Before the first harvest, those blooms grew into pods long and green and plump. There are fewer now each day, the pea pods growing shorter and ripening quicker than when they first appeared. They get hard and dry fast, which feels like a metaphor for the world since you’ve been gone.

The peas have fed us (me, happily; my husband, begrudgingly) all season. They’ve fed my neighbors and friends too.

They’ve provided LONG hours (you didn’t warn me about this part) of shelling—time spent with my kids, chasing green peas all over the kitchen. We’ve turned it into a contest. Addy reigns supreme with distance, one pea shooting all the way to the living-room stairs.

I’ve given dried pods to everyone I know who tends a garden. Spreading your beloved peas throughout my tiny corner of existence.

And each day that I step into the garden, I wear your old, soft, red-plaid flannel. It keeps the vines and tomato plants from making my arms itchy.

It still feels like one of your hugs.

I miss you. Your kids, grandkids, and Jolene miss you.

Maybe even the peas miss you, as they’ve nearly dried up on this the anniversary of your departure.

You may have thought the world had forgotten you even before you left—but you’re still here, inside all of us, and you and your memory will grow again next Spring.

I still love you, Pops.

Even more than I did a year ago.

Want some 6-week peas for your garden? I’m happy to share seeds. Send me a message or leave a comment below.

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