Tomato

I was challenged to write about a tomato…

It’s sitting on my desk to the left of me and to the right of the second keyboard used for the Mac.

Like it’s supposed to be there, all shades of red, the light bouncing off the top left corner, a little to the middle.

There’s a ghost on the right side and I realise it’s an echo of that keyboard, despite the light hiding on the other side of its fleshy figure.

A crater rests on top, archiving the stem it once branched from, a scar left once picked free from the family tree and I wonder if we carry scars too when we leave the family home; not all scars are bad – some the stretch marks of wings grown to big for the nest, some battle wounds from life-fights we’ve won.

I twist the fruit around in my hands, its cold and firm form belying its juicy, sweet-tart treasure under the skin.

The surface, like my own, looks one dimensional, a wall painted with one shade, but as I gaze on its natural and simple beauty I imagine the life lines under the veil, hidden from all but those who stop to investigate.

And there are tiny specks, floating, it would seem, arrested in repose, the telling of another world inside, the seeds unborn.

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