the day i stole a tomato

It is possible, I think, that I could go to prison for what happened this afternoon. But really, it wasn’t my fault. What happened was inevitable. The circumstances were conspiring. What I did this afternoon is what anyone, who is quite like me, would do.

I jumped off the train one station earlier so that I could take a walk and be alone with my thoughts, which I can tell you are not always good company. But given that today they were running along tracks not recently traipsed, I thought I should allow the opportunity for us to positively reconnect. I was then blessed, in the midst of all this winter, with a little sunshine, and I was able to flounce about in tights and a floral dress and feel only the weight of the sun’s rays on my shoulders. I was accompanied, too, by a whimsical, upbeat soundtrack, so it was no wonder that something glorious would not escape my attention. Specifically, that a thriving plantation of red goodness, only metres from the footpath and concealed barely by a flimsy, yet quaint, wire ensemble uncomplicated enough for any child or invalid to manipulate, would not escape my attention.

I don’t think timing a mere coincidence. For the last few weeks I have been grappling with a deficiency in drive. I have pinched myself purple, not knowing for certain whether I am really, truly alive. It seems the cold, amongst other things, had not only paralysed my kidneys and crippled my fingers and toes, ears and nose, but immobilised my spirit too. I consider perhaps that had today not happened as it did, this grappling might have gone on for another however many more weeks. I ask then is the sun and the unanticipated appearance of these red baubles not an example of divine intervention, with divine being all that is nature, all that is right there before us, but which we sometimes just don’t see?

So I offer my confession. I did it, yes. I have potentially jeopardised my future as a virtuous, upstanding, fretful citizen, teased up until now about my steadfast adherence to the law and my not unrelated paranoia of sirens and uniforms and middle-of-the-night knocks-on-the-door, but what would have been the alternative? To bypass the effervescent fruit and not capture its heat through my palms? To not remove the green crown with my teeth and to continue to feel stifled and much like a vegetable myself?

Yes, I stole a tomato. And yes, I ate it greedily, biting firmly into it with the messy intention of having the juice spurt everywhere and the seeds stick to my clothes as a reminder that Good Things Grow. And yes, I’m sorry if I upset anyone, but also yes, and I apologise once more, I would do it again.

The fruit may have been forbidden, but it was acquired, adored and devoured with a gracelessness that can only be born out of the most sincere passion. I think, in this light, that a greater crime would have been for the juicy miracle to be picked by someone less receptive to its sensation. For it was not just a tomato, something to add to my salad or pasta. It was a vision. It was a reason to hope, a reason to strive. It was a cue to grow to be everything I might ever want to be. And it was freaking delicious.