Tomatoes,” Kathleen Tighe

Kathleen Tighe

Slicing tomatoes near the sink juices spill onto the counter watery pink, dotted with seeds an earthy aroma releases tangy, sweet, mouthwatering memories of pasta sauces, salads, long evenings at the dinner table...

This comes to me, too:

A hot summer day long ago sun beating down on me as I tug at a stubborn weed pulling, gently though, to avoid uprooting the tender stalk emerging from the dirt alongside the weed. Pausing to wipe away the trickling sweat slipping into my eyes, I smear dirt across my forehead. I sigh and glance over at Dad.

He, too, is sweating, droplets glistening on his neck burned a permanent deep red from the summer sun. He moves among the rows in silence, palps orange-red tomatoes for ripeness, urges scallions from the resistant earth to check for size, flicks caterpillars off the overgrown romaine lettuce leaves, tosses weeds into a pile that I will gather and discard.

It is summer in New Jersey, where the tomato garden is bountiful, and my father is happiest.

I remember this, too: As the sun sets, Dad brings in the day’s harvest, cradling the metal colander as he might a basket of newborn kittens. He pulls from it a massive yellow onion, slices and offers it to me.

I shake my head.

He bites into a tomato like it was an apple, grins as the juice runs down his chin. “Lovely. Best thing in the world.

“Have one.”