The sweet greens of summer

WE CHOPPED. And chopped. And chopped.

We were chopping the skinny stalks of beach greens with my Gram’s ulus at her table in Unalakleet, Alaska. Summer sunlight streamed through the window above the clean kitchen sink of her small HUD home, The Price Is Right playing on TV. The greens were a foot long and had leaves the size of a fingernail, which felt rubbery, like they’d squeak if I stroked them with just the right pressure. The stalks gave a good crunch when the ulu blade sliced through. We didn’t say much.

Gram had picked the greens that morning from the beach just a short walk from her house, greens with an English name so literal — beach greens — I like to think they must have been I remember thinking.