Eating a sweet, tiny tomato, I flashed on the dear, spindly plant Robert grew for me Spring 2008. He knew how much I enjoyed sweet cherry tomatoes, but our yard didn’t have enough sun, so he planted it in a large pot in the sunniest spot and moved the pot as the sun moved. We were enjoying a wonderful early spring together and anticipating summer.
After Robert broke his back, I insisted that he let me move the tomato pot, which had become very heavy. He still “directed” where it should go.
Robert’s plant bore fruit, a tomato or two at a time at first, then several. He would feed the delicious tomatoes to me by hand, lovingly — until he became too sick and pained to go outside, and finally too sick and pained to care.
The plant outlived my beloved Robert, although it always struggled for life. I cried every time I tasted its tiny, exquisitely sweet fruit. I ate Robert’s tomatoes until October, when the plant gave up, and I left the house we had shared.
I ate an amazing, tiny, tomato yesterday, sweet as sugar, and I cried.