First published by Versification.

My father still keeps up the garden surrounding the weathered planks of the front porch, his tomato plants towering six feet tall, feathery leaves weeping over the tops of mother’s old hydrangea bushes. She would never have let him plant them so close to her hydrangeas, would never have let the waxy red orbs cast shadows over her pastel blossoms as she watched from her rocking chair. But he is no longer governed by her, and I wonder if he ever takes pleasure in the emptiness of the rocking chair as he clips his juicy tomatoes from their shackles.