Goodbye Garden

We pulled up the tomatoes today. The vines had gone brown and brittle, and the last few fruit were split from the rain.

Every year I plant too much and every year I’m surprised by how quickly it ends. In July the garden is a jungle. In October it’s a few stakes and some string.

This was the first year we grew everything from seed. In February the kitchen counter was covered in yogurt cups full of dirt, each one labeled in marker that smeared when I watered them. Half of them never came up. The ones that did were so thin and pale I was sure they wouldn’t make it.

They made it. By June the yellow pear tomatoes were taller than me. The basil went to flower before I could use it. The zucchini did what zucchini does, which is produce more than any household can eat. I left bags of it on the neighbors’ porches like a guilty secret.

The cucumbers were a failure. The peppers were fine. The carrots came out short and twisted, like they’d been thinking hard about something underground.

My favorite part was the evenings. I’d come out after dinner with the hose and stand there while the light went orange, watering things that didn’t really need it. The bees would be finishing up. Sometimes a hummingbird came to the bean flowers and I’d hold completely still until it left.

Today was quieter. We worked without talking much, pulling roots and shaking off the dirt, filling the compost bin. My hands smell like tomato leaves, which is a smell I think I’d recognize anywhere.

I saved seeds from the yellow pear tomatoes, the ones that never stopped producing. They’re drying on a paper towel on the windowsill.

Next spring feels very far away, but it’s already sitting there in a little pile.