Tomato Babies
Mary Collins

​       The germination period marks the beginning of life. When the seed awakens and begins to transform. A mother buries it in the dirt. It’s kept warm, watered, and in darkness. But soon it begins to sprout, breaching the earth and grasping for light. 
       Breathe in. Breathe out. These are your first sips of air. 
​       From the moment babies enter the world, red, round, and covered in a sticky substance similar to ketchup, they scream. The acidic cries fill the hospital room. But soon the shrieks lull into moments of sweetness. The babies are handed to their mothers. Swaddled in blankets they lay against her skin. Both of their hearts flutter with this new life. 
​       There’s a picture of her in her mother’s arms. She’s two. It’s cold. She’s wearing a fire-hydrant red coat and a pink hat with tassels that brush her mother’s cheek. Her nose matches her coat. The gloss of the picture catches the tip of her nose and the tears catching in the corners of her eyes. She has one hand on the back of her mother’s neck. The other under the collar of her mother’s coat, resting in the well of her collar bone. Her little hands clawing for heat and familiarity. Her red cheeks are turned toward her mother’s face. Each line, each wrinkle becoming ingrained in her memory. Her mother isn’t looking back. 
​       Once the seedlings have established themselves, their roots begin to grow. As the roots spread, they search for nutrients, trying to grasp at anything they can find. Above ground, leaves begin to form, twisting this way and that to catch the sunlight. 
​       Stand tall. Spread your toes in the dirt. If you build a solid core no amount of wind will be able to knock you over. 
​       She’s trying to catch her breath. The air isn’t filling her lungs fast enough. Tears stream down those same red cheeks. She’s eight. Her mother’s hands wrap around her arms. Her nails dig deep into her biceps, reminding her that she’s okay. She just needs to take a few deep breaths. She stays still. She can’t quite remember why she’s crying. It doesn’t matter. Her mother lifts her hand, leaving indentations in her skin; little crescents of purple. Her mother wipes her thumb across her cheek, catching the tear in the creases of her finger. Her mother whispers in her ear, “beneath your skin lay blood vessels. They are thin and spread out in different formations. Stretching far and wide, telling each other stories. But yours are closer to the surface, where the skin is more translucent, more delicate. It might be a little more red, but it can tear easily. Don’t forget.” She lifts her own hand and wipes it across her cheek. Her skin spills all her secrets. 
​       Stretch your arms up toward the sky. That’s where you will find light. That’s where you will eat. 
​       ​The flowering stage of the tomato is the most significant stage. It’s in this period that the plant begins its journey from vegetative growth to reproductive development. Tomatoes often have yellow flowers that form in clusters as the plant matures. They put all their energy into proper flower production, for only then can they correctly pollinate and bear fruit. Only then can they do what they have been biologically created to do. 
​       ​The cold metal of the bleachers kiss the back of her calves. She slides one cleat onto one foot and then the other, clicking her heels together. Her field hockey stick rests at her side. She’s happy in that moment; it’s her birthday. She makes space for her best friend to sit next to her. Her fingers track across the ridges of the steel. The best friend sits next to her, leaning over to whisper in her ear, “how does it feel to turn fifteen and to know that you still haven’t kissed a boy?” The best friend walks away. 
​       She grips the metal of the bleachers; the cold spreading like silver, the skin stretching tight across the knuckles. Her hands grow numb. The edge of the bleachers claw at her calves. She pushes and pushes against the metal until the flesh on the back of her legs are red, swollen. Where the outer layer of skin has spit, revealing the textured meat underneath. The seeds getting ready to ooze out. She tries desperately to fight back. 
​       After a tomato plant has successfully pollinated, the flowers drop. But those that are fertilized remain. Tiny green fruit begins to emerge. This is the familiar fruit of the tomato plant. Little green bulbs that hang off the vine, waiting for someone to tell them their next steps. The plant absorbs nutrients from the soil, water, and sunlight in order to ripen the growing fruit. 
​       But eat quickly. It might be the only chance you get. 
​       As the doctor scrapes her insides with sterile steel tools she can’t even begin to name, she gets the same feeling almost four years later. How as the doctor pokes and prods, the very same skin shrieks in protest, trying not to spill out. Trying to keep all her secrets inside. 
​       The doctor mentions something about infertility and how they will need to have a serious conversation when or if she decides to have children. She doesn’t hear the doctor. All she can focus on is how she crosses her feet under the desk. It is summer and she is wearing shorts. Skin coming in contact with skin. She hasn’t started college yet. She hikes her socks over her ankle bones, and flexes her feet. Her toes lift off the ground but her heels stay glued to the earth. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to flee. She can feel the red crawling up her neck, her jaw. It’s hot. It makes her want to unzip her skin. Step outside, pretend for just a minute that she isn’t herself. Remember to take a few deep breaths. Then she can climb back in. She doesn’t hear the doctor. She only thanks her. Thank you, thank you for your time. 
​       The tomatoes change color and grow in size as they mature. The green fades away and the characteristic red will begin to seep in. And not only will the colors transform, but the tomatoes will develop their signature flavor. This is when the tomato can be picked off the vine. But one must pay attention to how they harvest the tomato. If one is too impatient, the tomato will taste sour, bitter, barren. If one waits too long the tomato will become overripe, split, and drop to the ground. But above all, one must be careful how they handle the picked fruit; avoid bruising and destroying the tomato. Nobody wants damaged goods. 
​       She tries to have a better understanding, but maybe in a few years. She’s only twenty-one afterall. For now she rests against the small frame of her mother. Her elbow lays flat on the slope of her mother’s hip. Their legs resting against one another. Her’s are double the length and thirty-five years younger. She fidgets with the stem of her wine glass as she tries to listen. 
​       She’s only half paying attention to what her mother is saying. She’s too preoccupied by their similarities. The short, stubbiness of their toes. Her mother’s voice and how people have always thought she sounds just like her on the phone. The round, red cheeks and green eyes set into a perfect almond shape. The band of her mother’s wedding ring is cold to her touch as she interlocks their fingers. Even their hands are the same. 
​       ​She pulls the blanket over both of them, setting her glass down on the metal rimmed coffee table spinning back and forth. She knows that her feet, no matter how similar they might be, may never fit in her mother’s shoes. How no one will recall similarities with her legs, her own red cheeks, her own green eyes. How no child will clutch to her neck, reaching and grasping for light. How she would stretch her skin to the ends of the earth only to find it split, ripped beyond repair, waiting for seeds that will never fall. 
​       You can try to fight back. You can try to catch the light on your leaves. You can try to sew your skin back together. Let your fingers slip in and out of the thread. You can try to scream in protest. Just remember to take a few deep breaths. 
​       Remember that tomato that became overripe and fell to the ground. Eventually it will get stepped on and will begin to decompose. Only then will the seeds find their way to the ground. There the seeds will nest into the soil, where they will begin to germinate. And then if they can avoid getting sick, or the stresses of nature, if they can hold themselves upright and care for themselves, maybe then a new tomato plant might begin to grow. 
​       But maybe she will pick the tomato before it becomes overripe. Maybe she will roll it between her thumb and index. Maybe it’s a cherry tomato. The baby of the family. She will test its strength to see what it could become. 
​       ​But most likely all those names in her back pocket will stay buried. Most likely that cherry tomato will get eaten before it ever even had a chance.   

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Mary Collins (SC '25) is a junior at Scripps pursuing a double major in English and Media Studies!