Peas. My dad has a love hate relationship with peas. He hates the taste of them and usually ends up leaving them on the plate but insists on making them at least three times a week. I suspect it's because my mom loved peas and it just reminds him of her. I watched him this night, as I did many other nights, mindlessly pushing peas from one part of the plate. Some times he would stop as if someone pushed his pause button and his eyes would stare into his plate at something beyond the peas and then just as sudden he'd snap back to us as if he never left. I looked at my own peas. There were no secrets there. No hidden meanings just thirty-six peas. I started to line them up by size but my dad told me to quit playing with my food and finish up. After dinner I went up to my room to get ready for bed. After brushing my teeth I grabbed my journal. I planned on finding out more about the noise under my bed.