Aftergrowth

Aftergrowth Rhea Jayaswal

She brought me golden tomatoes every Tuesday. I tried to refuse them— it was unnecessary, truly—but she had a smile so sticky sweet, I couldn’t say no. My kids enjoyed popping them in their mouths like grapes, especially my 12-yearold girl. I munched on the tomatoes occasionally, in the two-minute lulls between finishing a chart and running to the next patient. Six full boxes were stacked high on my office counter one day. I noticed a handwritten note left on top. The ink told me there had been an ample reaping this year—enough to fill Fort Knox—and she was looking forward to seeing me in three weeks. The sweet lady had been coming for five years now, for knee pain, back pain, chest pain, and the like. But from that day, it only took two weeks and one quiet foe for her to never visit again: stroke. Her garden went to the senior center, though they weren't prepared to take care of it, she wasn’t prepared to let it go, and I wasn’t prepared to say goodbye. She sank heavily into the earth, while in her garden, new roots took anchor. Beans and sweet potatoes and cucumbers grew, sometimes bitter. She disappeared yet became as eternal as the morning dew that falls from the rains and rises from the oceans only to cling to those sprouting leaves. It was magic to witness the creation outlive the creator, to sit outside and watch my daughter chase the rabbits, and to savor a golden tomato.