My Tomato Was Just a Tomato

My tomato finally ripened.

And I could try to find some sort of symbolism in it. But I won’t.

Because sometimes everything just plods along and there doesn’t have to be any kind of grand interpretation of it all. Because days pass and that’s fine and there isn’t a significant moral to any sort of story. Because for the first time in awhile, I don’t feel like there is something very sad suspended just below, waiting to break the surface tension and disrupt my very carefully tended sense of steady.

All is well. All is peaceful. The tomato ripened and needed to be picked.

And like cigars, sometimes a tomato is just a tomato.

So. I sliced it up and put in my lunch salad. Without any over-wrought writer’s fanfare.

There are lots more blooms on the verge of budding however.

It’s all very promising.