It is time to harvest the potatoes.
September, late summer sun, she sits on her bench and watches the birds and the insects in the hedges, in the bushes and on the late summer flowers.
After the war we had a lot of potatoes in the fields. People were hungry, there was not enough. They wanted food. We harvested most of it by hand, into baskets and put them on a cart. At home we sorted them. The very small ones and the broken ones were boiled and fed to the pigs and the hens. A local tradesman picked up the good potatoes. They all wanted potatoes, the wives, the workers, the widows, the children.
She looks into the garden.
We should harvest the potatoes. It is a sunny day.
But we don’t have potatoes anymore in the fields.
I know. I am old now. But I should be out there. I can feel it in my bones. What day is it today? It is Tuesday. See, I am stupid. No, you are not. You are just a bit forgetful.
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