This summer it hasn’t exactly been tomato weather. We pull the comforter on the bed, and off, and every morning check the plant we caged in late July.
In the evenings, as you pull the work truck into our small driveway, trapping our cars there for the night, I watch you from the picture window, dinner bubbling on the stove.
And through the door you come announcing ten tomatoes, heavy for their size, meaty, tiny beauties. Yes! Tomatoes growing so large each day they pull their branches into the anty squash leaves. Tomatoes deeply creased where their skin aches to hold in what’s growing as if the inside can’t keep up with the outside, or as if it is a lush surprise and this:
It is this way to love you, with my skin stretched near bursting each morning as the sun rises and I find you once again in our bed.