Tomatoes

I have a tomato garden in my backyard.

When I was little, I would follow closely behind my grandmother down to the tomato plants and watch her tend the fruits, watering and sowing seeds. Little Alex, who loved his grandmother very much, wanted to plant things too. So, while she was busy with the rest of the garden, I would waddle away, looking for something to bury. I remember once I came stumbling back with a shiny, blue-striped plastic truck. Grandmother chuckled as she dug a little ditch next to the rows of tomatoes. I dropped the toy in, excited to witness the plastic trucks that I thought would sprout in the next week or so.

As years crawled, waddled, and eventually walked by, the garden faded behind me. Grandmother’s body began turning on her, and she tended the garden less and less. Having no one to follow, I buried my miscellaneous things less and less as well. At some point, after the last tomato was picked, no more seeds were sown. The tomato plants slouched, heads beginning to touch the dirt. Though there was consistent rain, they refused to drink. The plants withered in her absence.

One day, my father decided that we needed a satellite dish more than we needed the seemingly dead garden, and he wanted me to dig up what was once the tomato roots and clear what was once the tomato stem. As I poked the shovel through the grey vines and mulch, I heard a crack, one of plastic. I pulled the shovel back, revealing a small stripe, faded and dull, but still blue.