Originally published in Common Ground Review, Spring/Summer 2020 Vol. 22 issue 1
Rows of homes attached to one another
All Exactly the same,
Each with their own fenced in yard
My father planted one tree
But
Mostly there was cement
Adjacent to the tree
Was a scant bit of soil
Where by grandma attempted to grow tomatoes
From seeds
Cautiously
she walked down the wooden steps from our porch to the “garden”
using her cane to guide her.
the clothesline hung right over her head
Her black and white cat Shrimpie followed close behind
muted green housedress clung snugly to her round body
Zipper in front; big pockets
shmutz around the collar;
kerchief tied around her head
covering thin, silver spaghetti strands of hair
tied neatly in a bun.
handkerchief rolled up in her sleeve.
Glasses smudged and falling ever so slightly off her nose
Cheeks as smooth as porcelain
black wide heeled shoes and support stockings tied below her knees
when I closed my eyes at night
she came to me, the way an angel does
to comfort and lull me to sleep
Her words were garbled due to a lifetime of mini strokes and tumors on her brain;
One side of her face was paralyzed
couldn’t read or write
was it her Hungarian roots that made her so strong willed
Never understood how she knew how to care for those seedlings
Maybe she watered them just enough
Or sprinkled Shrimpie’s food as fertilizer
Or said some Hebrew prayer
Nothing ever grew;
She didn’t give up
one day
she carried up a tomato.
Red and ripe
followed by another day
and another tomato.
Pretty soon
they were bountiful
all different shapes and sizes.
Do we eat them or bronze them?
She still comes to me, the way an angel does
To comfort and lull me to sleep
What I wouldn’t do to be able to visit that yard, forty years after her passing
To capture and bask in her essence
Comments