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Kissing the Ripe Tomatoes

Kissing the Ripe Tomatoes From New Hampshire I write home to say I miss the tomatoes I planted then abandoned to come here. From my shady spot between two silver tines of birches, I imagine my tomatoes untended, drooping on their vines. My seven-year old neighbor sends me a message: Tell her I will kiss the tomatoes for her, and I want to write back again, Oh yes! Walk into the rotting garden softly, as when you try to surprise my sleeping cat, or when you turn in little dances you make up for yourself. Tuck them in among their own wet leaves and the tatters of blue shirt I gave them. Press your lips against their cracked, exhausted skins and let the warmth of your breath buffer them from frost. If they must fall, unpicked and wasted, let them go down as we all should, whatever our accomplishments, touched by those who care where we are going next and who grieve our going, kissed by a child in our ripeness. MAGGIE ANDERSON http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Kissing the Ripe Tomatoes

Appalachian Review , Volume 46 (4) – May 28, 2019

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081

Abstract

From New Hampshire I write home to say I miss the tomatoes I planted then abandoned to come here. From my shady spot between two silver tines of birches, I imagine my tomatoes untended, drooping on their vines. My seven-year old neighbor sends me a message: Tell her I will kiss the tomatoes for her, and I want to write back again, Oh yes! Walk into the rotting garden softly, as when you try to surprise my sleeping cat, or when you turn in little dances you make up for yourself. Tuck them in among their own wet leaves and the tatters of blue shirt I gave them. Press your lips against their cracked, exhausted skins and let the warmth of your breath buffer them from frost. If they must fall, unpicked and wasted, let them go down as we all should, whatever our accomplishments, touched by those who care where we are going next and who grieve our going, kissed by a child in our ripeness. MAGGIE ANDERSON

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: May 28, 2019

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