Years ago I had a rabbit named Buttercup.  This is related in no way to the bean plants I would grow with the help of my mother, who at the time had a small garden in our back yard.  It was around the same time, I suppose.  These are memories of summer, as it approaches now.  Of digging for worms which were churned up in damp earth by my father, who turned the soil with a shovel to prepare it for my mother.  I was not a squeamish child, and was delighted by the smell which I now connect with warm days and happiness.  How many times did I water the bean sprouts?  Did we gather the small crop when they grew?  I cannot remember.  Most likely no, my family was never organized.  We would let them grow, separate from our lives; my mother with her housecleaning and frequent naps and enduring migraines, my father with his work, me with my child’s life.  The memory is just one day, a step away from reality.  (When I Grow Up, Fever Ray cover)

A step towards First Aid Kit