My grandfather owned a red tomato orchard.
Drops of fire on the branches at sunset.
He made the sauce for Mussolini's plate.
My father owned the orchard next.
He drank too much and the red faded.
Then he died on the pier in the sun.
I remember my grandfather told stories
about the history of our grove.
That we were living history.
He said Caesar marched through this valley,
ate one of our tomatoes, and said,
"This is what your family is meant to do."
And so we did for thousands of years.
Now our name is on a bottle
in every home in America.
And I'm to blame.
0 comments:
Post a Comment