A pot of beans needs your favorite pot, the one you bought in a parking garage ten years ago for a dollar from the back of someone’s truck. You tried to talk yourself out of it, like the $7 almond butter that always makes its way in and then out of your shopping cart. You’ve stopped trying to describe the ways that you miss the place that you and the pot are from. It’s thin bottomed so the onions always burn.
A pot of beans is a boy so small he’s still learning his legs. He’s red to the elbows because every fifth or sixth strawberry makes it into his mouth. Maneuvering around him to restock the beans, his father snaps open the pods to check their inhabitants and whispers the names to himself: Calypso, Black Coco, Cranberry. Calypso with Calypso.
A pot of beans happens on an otherwise horrible day, a day when a woman runs into you in the train station and instead of apologizing, lays her hands on your small body and moves you out of her way. A pot of beans is a constellation on the kitchen table: a big bowl for the shells, a smaller one for the beans, and your working hands in the middle. Water, salt, oil, and a bay leaf–just what you need when you need a little less.