The Last Tomato

This is an excerpt from the weekly News-Loveletter. If you would like it sent to your inbox directly (with all the other juicy bits, including a mini joy practice), you can add yourself to my mailing list here.

I trim a black spot, slice off a dent. This one’s a survivor. The tomato I’ve got in my hand has lasted for months in the garage and for weeks more in the fridge. Now it’s the One.

This tomato made it to that unmarked finish line, the furthest run. Sweet glory incarnate. It’s destined for that final tomato and grilled cheddar sandwich. In December. Unforgettable.

We all want to be unforgettable in our way, don’t we? To know that we have served and were well-received? You could say that desire is all ego, but I’m not so sure. I love to celebrate the unforgettable people I feel connected to. I’d be sad if they slipped beyond memory.

 I love that I have friends with whom I share unforgettable teachers like my mentor, Inbal Kashtan. She taught so many. A recent celebration of life ten years after her death brought her into the room with us. Communion. Her spoken word reverberated in the speakers of my laptop. Challenged me to come to life, to be curious, to love.

A fruit that has survived weeks of ripening indoors is a rare fruit indeed. This tomato has seen it all. Sunlight is stored in its juice. There’s a map of summer in every cell. I find myself there. The mulch I hauled by the barrowful protected her roots. My skin was tickled by her hairy vines. We have history. We are community. We are one.

And so I bring this last tomato to my lips. Wrapped in toasted bread, snuggled beside golden cheddar. A last hurrah, a final offering. Summer reaching its long fingers all the way to Solstice.

 A feast for the body, mind, and heart.