I silently eased the window open.
The world remained asleep in the muted morning light except for an occasional call from a bird.
The fog had carried in cool air, filled with dampness in the river valley.
As a child might do, I quietly planted myself on the soft carpet below the window. I imagined a walk in the garden that lay before my eyes.
I wanted to take in a stroll, undisturbed, to fill my lungs with the scent of damp earth, to absorb the favor of tranquility, and to admire the green that my elder was so perfect at urging out of the ground.
If I woke her, grandmother would make herself busy with my breakfast. I would put up a protest without winning. The day would become active in a hurry. Alas, this was my time with nature, to admire it from my quiet spot, and this was her time to rest.
I squinted from my window seat. What was that orange ball in the back row of the garden? I had not noticed it the day before.
I drew my face in closer as I squinted in disbelief. Grandmother had never grown pumpkins before, and how would one emerge overnight?
She was a creature of habit, and pumpkin simply did not fit in. What new church recipe or canning adventure was she eager to try?
I noticed the movement in the back row of the garden. The orange ball stretched out a lazy leg, then another, followed by a head with erect feline ears.
The orange stood up and sauntered to the back porch where grandmother had left breakfast in a bowl.
My grandmother’s first garden pumpkin was content.
The world was at peace.
So was I.
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