Sunday

An ambulance blazed by an old man’s house in a flurry of red and orange. This gray and grizzled man was sitting on his porch, bitterly working his way through a pack of cigarettes. The ambulance was loud, so he flipped it off. The small exertion started him into series of sharp, dirty coughs — it wasn’t his first time smoking a pack. In the process of his sick spasm, he knocked over a small, potted tomato plant. He liked himself a plump, red tomato. Even raw, he loved to bite into them and let their blood and guts ooze down his chin. The plant fell off the porch. The man grunted apathetically, then hobbled back inside his house.

Monday

The man went out to get the morning newspaper. He sauntered out in his threadbare bathrobe, grabbed the paper and headed back inside. Before he reached his door, he saw the plant lying on the ground. He did like a good tomato. He picked it up and carefully cradled it inside. Yesterday’s fall had broken the main stem. He set it on his kitchen table. He didn’t think the plant would be able to recover, but he had a certain amount of respect for its naive stubbornness. It would live out its last days on the regal plateau of his old, oak table.

Tuesday

Tomatoes are fairly tough plants. They can recover from little injuries. After some reflection, the old man decided to give the little tomato plant a chance. He planted a short stick parallel to the plant’s stem and used some ties to brace one against the other. He even gave it a sprinkle of water (not too much; he didn’t want it to drown).

Wednesday

The plant started to curve towards the sunlight that beamed from the window. At the sight, cynicism took the old man. He leaned down close to his plant and whispered, “What is crooked cannot be made straight.”

He took a seat and locked eyes with the plant. He broke out another pack and began to create billows of smoke as if to thwart photosynthesis.

Thursday

A raven’s shriek woke the old man — a bad bird at any time, but worse when things are serious. He took a few minutes to examine the break. Despite his clever bandaging, the break had not healed. The stem would never regain its integrity. A sigh of relief. Even so, it had acquired a dry and scabby layer over the top. Somehow, the stem past the break had continued growing; it had not been completely torn off. The wound had become a scar, and the scar had become a part of its nature.

This flustered the old man. He didn’t believe in restoration. It seemed unnatural to him.

Friday

The plant continued to flourish. It now boasted a rich crown of leaves —i t almost seemed to be proclaiming a victory. Its visage inflamed a low and vicious part of the man, what might be called the animal. He tried to sprint to the plant but tripped. Pained, he got up and limped the rest of the way. In a moment of utter sadism, he removed the plant’s brace. He watched his own limp become duplicated in the little plant.

He sank down into his chair. The fall and the passion had left him wasted. He let out a few scratchy breaths before bursting into another flurry of coughing. His body gyrated violently with pain until the last bark, which sent a spray of blood across the poor plant. He fell asleep in his chair.

Saturday

A siren blared. He tried to shout out some expletive, but all that came out was a hoarse wheeze. There was a phone in front of him; it was in the middle of a 911 call. He recalled dialing it himself a few minutes before. Looking down, he saw the blood on his lap. He laughed, lucidly reflecting on the pointlessness of his efforts. He was too far gone. In the corner of his eye, he spied the old tomato plant. Now they were brothers in brokenness, he mused. He had always liked himself a fresh tomato.

A speck of red peeked out of the covered corners of the plant. It wasn’t his blood. On the far side of the plant, a little tomato was just tasting the first kiss of ripeness. The sneaky plant had kept it hidden, covering it and keeping it green — all the camouflage necessary to conceal it from the aged eyes of the man. Just as those eyes began to see, they closed and he entered a sort of sleep. The tomato’s victory was known, and it vaunted over the man. He had been destroyed by healing.

Health, as demonstrated by the tomato, happens naturally. When the word nature is said, it encompasses a world. That world is tough and old; more so than the old man. Only an idiot opposes what will happen naturally. Sometimes there are idiots, and they will be held accountable by the same justice that they oppose.

As the man faded away, the plant stood there in glory. Ignoring the plant, paramedics flooded in, but quickly fell into a calm as they assessed the death. One of them was struck by a strange impulse. She grabbed the plant — it would be an exquisite addition to her garden.