Solitude is an acquired taste

​Each yellow cherry tomato is a surprise. I planted this garden in the spring. Remember how I was rootless, lost in the work. That I woke one Saturday morning, the house quiet and humming with loneliness. I put those seeds - too many seeds because I was hedging my bets - into the dry earth and watered them every day. Weeks later I recognize something there. Tiny, green, sleek. Hope. And now I hold hope in my hand, put them into my mouth like candy and swallow. It turns out that solitude is an acquired taste but as sweet as a tiny golden tomato now that I have learned to savor it.