Gentle Hands

I believe there is something

to this thing we call living

as I sit and watch the bare and naked branches

of a weeping willow dance in the wind

and the corpses of corn husks below –

I envision my father

In old, worn jeans, playing in the dirt

his wrinkled hands gently wrapped around a tomato

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I hear the clapping of the oil

as he places a breaded green tomato

in a cast iron skillet

and “Hey Good Lookin” sifting

through the speakers on the stereo.

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I’m brought back to the kitchen

of my parents’ home

where my father made

fried green tomato sandwiches

and I was just a girl in pigtails

whose small hands could barely wrap

around the bread.

smiling up at my father

as tomato seeds smiled down my chin

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And as 35 edges closer

and I sit here amongst the

dead leaves

and the remnants of another summer

that has come to pass

I wonder how many sandwiches have been molded

by those wrinkled, gentle hands

and how many more opportunities I have

to eat those fried green tomato sandwiches with him.

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Yes, there is something

to this thing we call living.

©Image & Poem by Kristian L. Weigman