A man told me once about his young daughter who held a tomato in her hand and dropped it on the floor. The girl sobbed tears of sorrow, screaming for hours about the tomato that fell. The image is amusing, and while you feel bad, you can’t help but laugh. The tomato never broke though. She didn’t pick it up either. She just kept screaming.
I started thinking about this.
I wonder if “the one that got away”
“the job we would have had”
“the time we could have spent”
is the tomato.
We let go of something wonderful and magical and thrilling. But when we let go it’s done. We don’t pick it up. We mourn it’s loss, wait for the tears to dry and move on. But still we wonder…
What would have happened if we picked up the tomato?
I guess that’s what poetry is for.