August 25, 2009


My grandfather lives in Montreal, in the same home where my father grew up. The same home where he built that first bicycle for him, with gears rattling along bumpy roads. The same cats hiding in and out of the basement. The same car in the driveway, older than me and likely in need of an oil change.
My grandfather has a garden there and quaint as it may be, it has all the essentials. Apples, pears, raspberries, blackberries, carrots, and tomatoes. He'll pick an apple down from the tree and bite into it. He'll smile with his dentures as he holds out the apple and shows off the half of worm still left in the pit as he chews the other end. I would climb those trees and find the ripest fruit at the top. I would fill bags with raspberries, searching beneath every leaf.
His skin is tan and his back looks sore as he spends his day tending to the soil.
I have two tomato plants in my apartment bedroom. Watered carefully each day they grew quicker than I had imagined and soon they were outgrowing their small potted home. They have now been relocated. A larger pot, more spacious, better fertilizer and fresh soil, new support sticks. They wilt though, full of despondence.
Promising as it may seem, some things should never be uprooted.

1 comment:

a said...

pity tomatoes aren't more like goldfish.