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
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.
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
And as 35 edges closer
and I sit here amongst the
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.
Yes, there is something
to this thing we call living.