Anna stretched her gnarled fingers and rubbed at the knuckles to work out the ache. She’d spent most of the day on her knees, wrist-deep in the warm soil as she planted lettuce, radishes, and kale. Not that she’d ever grown to enjoy kale in any of the many recipes she’d tried. Still, it was supposed to be good for you.

She stood and massaged her lower back before scooping up the seed packets from the ground. Why hadn’t she planted peas instead? Those would have been worth the pain, considering she enjoyed them. But then, Bill never had. He preferred his wilted greens. She shuddered at the thought of the slimy leaves. She preferred her greens crisp and in a salad bowl. Rabbit food, Bill called it. She shook her head and smiled at the memory.

A bird flitted past, landing in the large maple tree by the deck. After surveying her work, she stooped and picked up a small packet she’d left behind. Peas. She frowned. She checked the expiration date. Good for two more years. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime sang as a soft breeze tugged at Anna’s silver hair. She dropped back to her knees and poked small holes in the garden bed. 

“Still watching out for me, aren’t you?” she said.

In someone else’s yard a dog yipped in reply. 

Next door the neighbor started shouting as Anna patted the last of the soft earth back in place. 

“What the hell happened to my peas?”

Word: seeds | Action: planting