stewed tomatoes

her thin fingers in the pot 
of unfurling red while
we sat side-by-side at 
the little kitchen table
on which a bouquet of dusty fake flowers,
lilies, opened wider in the sweet air.

i think the only thing i miss about
you is your grandmother. there are,
of course, other things, but 
i have been thinking about 
your grandmother & the stewed
tomatoes she made us that afternoon.

she mixed in odd ingredients
like a slice of white bread &
a cup of sugar. she talked to me
in flourishes 

i used to sing in the choir but not anymore

& you are a beautiful girl i bet you sing

i'm not beautiful anymore 

it's so nice to see young people like you 
it gives me faith 

she had a piano turned side wards
in the other room, the cover half way
over its body, like plastic wrap 
on leftovers. 

the stewed tomatoes were hard 
to eat. they tasted wrong. sweet 
& warm & bleeding but i ate
them out of respect, it was
only right to do so & 

as i did i thought about how
old the tomatoes probably were
having slept so long
in a cool dark can, finally 
released by her old rusty 
opened setting on the counter.

she was an anxious person,
fearful of germs. when bringing 
in the groceries she was sure
to waive every bag out on 
the front porch 
to release the dust

having just had hip surgery 
this was hard for her.
while cooking she stopped 
to clean the bags
just to be sure

i offered to stand by
the door with her & help.
you told me not to encourage
her, that she was always OCD
like this but i hope that when 
i'm eighty that someone helps
me with whatever i need.

eating the stewed tomatoes, 
i pretended they were from far 
away, somewhere lush & tropical even.
the sun: a hot stove, the plump fruits
gathered together, the playing
of a piano in the wind.