themselves, with fresh tomatoes,
mushing them by hand because
a blender might have bruised the produce.
Putting on a party they discovered
that the drinks were quite a hit,
people asking for the recipe and
gushing just a bit at what a difference
over store-bought brands they'd
always had before. One guest drank
too many, not a woman used to alcohol
at all and so accumulation,
after several hours, took its toll.
She staggered to the porch to get
some air, a conversation interrupted
by the move with someone she
has wondered since about, troubled
that she may have blown her chance
at finding Mr. Right that night by
rushing off outside. At the time, though,
leaning over railing, blowing chunks
was more the problem on her mind,
not that she'd ever put it quite that
way, because her nature is more
delicate than that. Whatever phrase
one uses though, she spewed, threw up,
she vomited and felt a little better then
but later, when she'd see tomatoes,
even in a salad, she felt ill. A favorite
blouse her mother gave her, pitched
into the bag of cast-offs headed
to Goodwill because the redness
of the fabric made the bile rise in her throat,
and when her mother saw it hanging
on the rack to buy (her mother loved
to find a bargain) she mused how odd
that she should see a blouse just like the one
she gave her daughter, maybe she would buy it
and surprise her with suggesting that
they both put blouses on the next
time they were going out together,
mother/daughter garb or even (since her
mother still looked young) taken to
be twins. And when a year had passed,
the people who had thrown the party were amazed
to find, there just below the porch where
she had heaved, tomato plants grown
from the seeds of her regret.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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