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August 1, 2007
Speeding through August’s heat-mirages, I stop automatically. The rusty pick-up has a hand-lettered sign with a skinny, squished E. TomatoEs. Plump, misshapen orbs glow like jewels. Their dusty, taut skin shows the caprices of Nature. My eyes are drawn despite the flaws.

“Here, taste,” urges the faded farmer, pressing a fat globe and salt shaker into my hand. Juice dribbles down my chin; it isn’t taste alone, but is sight – summer sunshine, smell – cut grass, feel – black earth and warm rain, and sound -- my grandfather’s voice. Tears prick my eyes. Perfection of memory, for a friendly smile.

I buy several.