I’d decided on tomato plants: raised beds; heavy loads of bagged-organic-assured-compost; canes; string, and plants at first just seed, cluttering up the windowsills, carried out and in, gently rooted and later coaxed to leave the hearth’s warmth to earth.

I’d tend them, water, prune and feed them, later reap a bumper crop, and peer across the windowsill as autumn turns to frost, 

bitter-sweet with memory, bottling it up. 

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