I sent this to a local publication recently. I'll find out today or tomorrow whether or not they print it (if they do, I get money ):


A Promise of Frost


“They said it was going to freeze,”
My husband says at five-thirty in the morning,
Scowling at the thermometer by the kitchen window.
The temperature is just over 40.

“No, they didn’t.”
I never learn, just can’t let it go.
“They said a chance.”

“Well.”

I wait, even though I could lip-sync his next words:
“What’s it supposed to be tonight?”

I take a deep breath,
Thinking of the dozen old bed sheets
Draped over support stakes
Like lopsided ghosts in the garden.
The ghosts of September tomato plants.
He’s getting sick of it.
So am I.
“A better chance for a freeze,” I finally say.

He looks at me, and I specify:
“That’s what Gary Sadowsky said.”
I’m trying to think, did he actually say freeze or frost?
Widespread, heavy or generalized?
Are we a low-lying valley or what?

“Well,” he says again.

I bite my tongue through the ensuing silence,
Wanting desperately to fill it,
Come close to saying “That’s a deep subject”.
But it’s way too early in the morning
To say something lame and smart-alecky.
So I exercise uncharacteristic restraint
And say nothing.

“You want me to pick the rest of them tomatoes, or what?”
(He says it like: resta them tuh-maytas”)

This inevitable question should be easy, but it’s not.
Not for me, anyway,
And my answer is long in coming.
I hate to waste anything I can salvage.
I glance at the stainless steel bowls heaped with tomatoes of all types and sizes,
Already abundantly salvaged,
Crowding out the toaster and my work space.

But do I ever want to see another tomato?
I factor in the probability of a hard freeze,
The inefficiency of removing and folding all those sheets
Only to haul them out
And clothespin them to the chicken wire again tonight.
I consider the likelihood of tomatoes shriveling en masse on my counter
While I crawl into bed every night thinking,
“Tomorrow I really need to do something with those tomatoes.”

Tick tick tick.
I need to say something.
Yes or no, just make the call.
Pick them? Irrevocable.
Cover them? What a hassle.
Take a risk? So not me.

“No,” I finally say,
While he’s still patient with my ambivalence.
“Just leave ‘em.
If they freeze, feed ‘em to the hens.
If they don’t....”

In my head I finish the sentence like this:
If they don’t, we’ll go through this again tomorrow.