I was holding the top of the brown paper lunch bag of garden tomatoes with my left hand as I opened the front door.
The bag ripped and the tomatoes fell.
A small piece of the bag left in my hand.
There were nine tomato’s in the bag. I paid three dollars for the fresh garden tomatoes. One dollar for three tomatoes. A neighbor put a table on the side of his yard and sold three tomatoes for one dollar. A small plastic container with a lid to place my wrinkled, three, one dollar bills.
Turn right at the last stop sign before you have to turn left and left and then a right, before you see my driveway.
The tomatoes landed on the concrete porch and one rolled out, beside the welcome mat. The welcome mat that has been walked on until welcome is a shadow. The W a little bolder as the rest of the word fades away.Be careful how you hold a paper bag full of tomatoes. Click To Tweet
Life is fragile. Bags rip, tomatoes fall. Bruised tomatoes.
Bruised by words, whispers, talking, mumbled hints of disdain.
“The important thing isn’t what other people think you are; it’s who you are.”
― Shannon L. Alder
A piece of the bag left in someone’s hand, and the rest on the floor.
The weight of the tomatoes too heavy for the thin bag. Perhaps if the bag was supported from the bottom, or if the bag was held close, close to the body, the bag wouldn’t have ripped.
The bag was was was wasn’t supported. The tomatoes fell.
And one rolls away.
How careful are you when you hold a paper bag full of tomatoes?
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