See Hear Taste Smell Touch Memory

Tonight I cut up the last tomato from my garden into fat slices, sprinkled them with seasoned salt, and ate them while leaning against the kitchen counter. I ate slowly, thinking of the time it took for the fruit to perfectly ripen on the vine outside my bedroom window, watching water drip from the glasses in my dish rack, and thinking of my father.

My father was the first person to introduce me to this method of eating a tomato. I think I may have been ten years old, or perhaps twelve. Dad had taken little brother and I to Kensington Metro Park for the day to fish and have fun. There must have been other food -- burgers grilled to Dad's degree of extreme well-doneness in all likelihood -- but whatever else we ate that day is fully eclipsed by the memory of those tomatoes.

He cut them up with his sharp, clean fillet knife and pulled out the Lawry's salt. Although I can't remember what his exact words were, I can hear his voice clearly, saying something like, "Now, have you ever tried tomatoes this way?" Little brother and I shook our heads, No, reveling in this rare summer quality time with Dad, watching as he deliberately and demonstratively sprinkled exactly the right amount of red and orange salt onto the open flesh of the tomatoes. He knew we'd want to remember the steps in order to recreate them some day. Little brother and I ate the sweet and salty fruit, licking the salt and pink juice from our lips, laughing with our father in the Michigan summer sunlight.

Almost every time I eat a tomato with seasoned salt I remember that moment. Everything about the salty slices, from their appearance to the way they feel on my tongue, conjures up that first experience. I have an arsenal of memories like this. Memories that come to me forcefully when I see, hear, taste, smell or touch something. Tonight's tomato reverie was a most welcome surprise.

Lately most of the deep memories are of a man who could not love me, no matter how hard he tried. Some memories are distant, from fourteen years ago; some are closer, from four months ago. There are those that creep up on me, and there are those that arrive suddenly, disruptive and uninvited. It is always a strange, haunted ache that I am left with. I look forward to the day when the ache is surpassed by peaceful acceptance; but in the meantime, while I'm waiting for time to do what only it can, I'll take comfort in the memory of tomatoes.