Bittersweet Tomatoes

We got a call while we took our lemonade break. Dad told us Grandma had taken a turn for the worse. We climbed into the car and drove silently to the hospital.

The stark hallways and disinfectant stench made my stomach churn unhappily. When the elevator doors opened and I saw my Dad in the hall I ran up and hugged him. We both needed it.

I stood silently by Grandma’s sleeping form, tubes sticking out of her covers every which way, machines beeping rhythmically. The room buzzed, but not with life. I squeezed Grandma’s soft hand while I wiped away my tears.

I thought about how I would love to throw those jars of tomatoes at the drunk driver who did this to her. I imagined the satisfying way they would smash and splatter red goop and tiny yellow seeds all over his car, house, and person. Somehow his being behind bars wasn’t good enough. I wanted him to suffer. Maybe he’d get Botulism and die.

A nurse came in, followed by my parents who ushered me out.

“Anyone for spaghetti?” I asked.

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