The tomato in my hand, still warm and reverberating from the sun, and the green vine connecting it to the autumnal soil, reminded me of an egg; it had the same shape and weight. For lack of a basket, I collected the tomatoes in my shirt, turned up at the tail, and prickles formed on my exposed belly.
I turned 50 this year.
Some days, I pine for my own sweet off-spring, which never developed beyond the pre-mature stage of idea.
On other days I'm content in my alone-ness.
In either case, these tomatoes in the garden make me cry.