Oh! Tomato Man!

Sunday was a rare day, all mine.  On days like this, I usually go off to the flea market at 6:00 AM, treasure hunting for vintage costume jewelry or other curiosities.  I didn’t go flea-ing this Sunday because I am moving and haven’t yet figured out how to fit everything I own into a shoe box. Introducing one more object into the mix, great find or not, isn't the brightest of ideas.

So I went to my class at the community college, and ran a few leisurely errands. But by mid-afternoon my need to seek was so great that I found myself pulled, trance-like to the flea market grounds. I knew that all the vendors would be gone by that point. And I really wasn’t going to sniff around with hopes of finding an old brooch, slipped out of its box into the gravel or a fly-away antique photo, forgotten and left behind, honest - I wasn’t. But I was desperate for a discovery.  I set my sights on the antiques center on the complex knowing they would still be open. I just couldn’t get  my mind off the bins and bins of old postcards just sitting there in the air conditioned ambiance. 

Settling in, savoring the smell of mildew and history, I sat on a stool, while Sinatra sang from someplace, immortal. Ghosts of yesteryear, peered down approvingly from their ornate frames. The patina-ed furniture, welcomed like church pews.  I could hear other customers talking to the dealers about their furniture and jewelry purchases. “Can you do better? Is that a firm price? Is it oak, is it silver?" 


 I loved sitting there in collectible heaven, filing through the postcards.  There were thousands, mostly of the souvenir variety, not my favorite, which made the dig for art cards, all the more challenging.  After an hour and a half, yes an hour and a half, ( I left no card unturned )I narrowed my purchase down to seven – a select few Christmas postcards for a dollar each.  How much space can a postcard (or seven) take up anyway?

As I was leaving, I saw a dark-haired, burly man, an owner I guessed. He was eating a late lunch at the check-out counter  - a fresh Jersey beefsteak tomato (no doubt from the farm right down the road) served up in Tupperware bowl. He ate this neatly, merely this and nothing more.

“It doesn’t get much better than that,” I told him as I was leaving the store. He looked up in complete understanding. (If you have ever eaten a Jersey tomato, warm from the vine, then you, no doubt, understand too). The man smiled as I opened the door. He looked so sweet, almost vulnerable, sitting there enjoying his "tomada".

The bell clanked behind me. I took a step or two onto the sidewalk, and walked, without warning, right into a wall of loneliness. I suddenly ached for company. I ached to cut up a tomato for a man.

I dropped my postcards and ran back into the store. I rushed behind the counter where he sat and knelt next to the big man with the tomato. I didn't hug him, I merely rested my head on his chest, listening to the heart beat of a real man.

Come on. (Did you really think I would drop my postcards?)

But as I felt the sidewalk beneath my feet again, and my legs continued to take me toward my car, I couldn’t help entertaining that scenario. What if I had run back in? I pictured the man’s startled expression, his paw automatically patting my back in comfort; he and the other workers stunned by the surprise violation of  his personal space. Who was this woman, resting her weary head on his chest, breathing in his imagined chivalry?

 I laughed at the thought of it, and laughing when you are alone does have a tendency to send off alarm bells of lunacy. I saw a couple of other treasure- hunters hesitate, assessing the degree of  danger that I posed; a fifty-something woman, alone and laughing quietly to herself with no Bluetooth discernible. But, I must have seemed harmless enough, because they cautiously continued on. So did I, enjoying my day alone, doing things that I enjoy.

A Wisp of Progress

People often tell me "how far I've come".  And I look behind me and I look ahead, and I say, "Really?"  At work I hear it often. "You are not the same scared rabbit that came in here. " Gee thanks. I think.

I am still scared. And I have a long, long way to go. Mostly for practical purposes. Like earning enough to make a little nest for myself and my daughter, and figuring out a way to do it.

I am learning to believe that this will all be revealed to me. And this does not mean in a majestic moment where the clouds part and the answers are hanging there, glistening. It is not an idle revelation, but one that comes from keeping my eyes open, my hands working and my heart receptive.

So how far have I come, really? I still break out into a true, heart-pounding sweat every time I have to open an email from the ex or his lawyer. Is this being a scared rabbit, or just being a real human not yet immune to betrayal? If it didn't bother me, maybe that would be true cause for worry, and not progress at all, but a loss of my own sensitivity. Still, this sure doesn't look or feel like progress.

And I still weep, often, over not having a nest of my own, no kitchen to make tea for my flock when they are sick or weary. But I will find other ways to nurture. It is what I do best. I carry it inside and to know that I still have the strength and desire to use it, is something to be proud of. But progress? Eh, not so much; still the same in that regard.

But this morning, as I lit my incense, I said a prayer, as always for peace for my family, and the rest of the world. For three and a half years no matter how hard I tried, I knew that this meant, the rest of the world, except he and she.  But today, when I blew out the match and whispered the words, " I light this incense with a prayer for peace for my family and everyone else" - I knew that I meant them too. What a revelation. For me to wish them peace and to really mean it - is progress immeasurable. 

Suite Surrender

This endless

tug of war.

Tell me,

If I let go,

what will you do 

with your end?

Lasso the victory

and show it off?

Trip

on your lies

and fall?

I keep 

holding on

hoping 

for a

human

being

at the other end.

But there is

just

irrationality

yanking

without

remorse.

If I let go,

you win

the coveted

castle

And I learn

to live 

without

walls

of 

my own

I might 

one day 

know the

scents of

home again.

But then again, I might not. 

Still,

to let go

is to be free

of you.

And,
I do,

love

the sound 

of that.

Here.

I’m 

letting

go

of 

my

end

What you do with yours, 

is out of my hands.

A Rose and Nothing More

I found this rose pressed between the pages of my Impressionist Prints book, an enormous tomb, just right for pressing things. I had to get rid of my book and others like it because I am now moving again, getting rid of most of what I own, and that includes a lot of my pride too. But this post is about the flower.

I found a note I had left between the pages with the rose, scribbled in pencil: "from ----Valentines Day, 2000." My youngest was only 6 at the time. I was still a homemaker, so happy that I could be there for my kids, but always in a state of inexplicable uneasiness that left me sort of colorless, lifeless.  I wonder now if this was the last flower given to me by the ex. It was miraculously preserved, this twelve year old rose- the color true, the stem still graceful, albeit, a little brittle. 

I had no feelings toward this rose. I had no desire to stomp on it or grind it into bits. It did not coax a single tear from my eye. I don't even remember him giving it to me, although this note was telling me that he did. And its discovery did not churn out even a trickle of other unwanted memories.  I was merely surprised to find it. A neutral surprise. 

I studied it, admiring its form. It was a delicate curiosity.

In the end I did crumble the dear thing. Just a soft crumble, rolled between my palms, and brushed off into the trash can. It had to be. I am moving on and no longer have room for such things.

Wake Up and Smell the Peppers

 

It was in the produce store, a comment about peppers, not about peppers from a handsome man,

my age. I answered, "Yes, the peppers are cheap here," before I knew he wasn't interested in the peppers.

He looked at his friend, and the two men exchanged smiles. Was he mocking me?

Just like the shy, thirteen year old me, I hid behind my hair and turned away. But as I rummaged through my purse for my wallet and paid for the peppers, I thought, was that, could that, have been ... flirting?

Confused, I found my way through the parking lot. I remembered where I had parked, but realized I had forgotten what it felt like to be a woman, admired by a man.