There is an elderly woman who lives in my childhood home in Virginia. My brother tells me that she loves to grow tomatoes like some people grow wildflowers. In every available space, as a border to the porch, in the spots where the roses and hydrangeas grew, all now tomatoes. While wonderful to see such eccentric growth, it was also hard for my brother to see. There was a part of him that wanted the old yard back, the flower beds and vegetable garden and the swathe of green grass just big enough for children to run about with clothes lines arching above. He wanted the fence line back that separated our property from the neighbor’s, a wire fence covered in honeysuckle and milkweed and edged with wild mint. And he wanted the trees, the maple, the plum and that short-lived apricot.
All had been gone for near two decades but in that moment, of seeing those tomatoes, he fiercely wanted it all back and with it the parents now deceased and the siblings spread far and wide. “You alright, Daddy?” his son asked. He looked down at his five-year old who was sprouting up like an oak. “Yes, son. Daddy was just remembering. Remind me to tell you about the seeds I planted in this place.” The son nodded and then said, “Okay, but can we go to the playground first?” My brother laughed, tickled his son, and let the past fade knowing it would never disappear. “Yes, son, let’s go. We must have our priorities.”
Words + Images 