Tomorrow's Promise

Edible Flower Salad & Veggie Pasta

The farmer at the Sunday market doesn't look like the farmers in my childhood books and stale imagination. No blue overalls. No cap.  This farmer is young. Hip. Guarded in an alternative reality selling his edible  flower salad mix at a trendy market.

He sells a kaleidoscope of blossoms spicy with radish sprouts. I ask him the best way to dress them. He mentions soy sauce and he doesn't like lemons. I drift off pondering what I have in my cabinet. Coconut aminos, wildflower honey and seasoned rice vinegar.  

It is one of my many faults.  I ask someone a question when I already possess my own answer. Sometimes I only leave room for myself.  I leave the farmer to buy bread. The next farmer is a baker racing behind an imagined clock. She ignores me. I wait. She continues to ignore me as I wait. Finally. Perturbed.  Loaves of bread between us. She asks me what I want. I point at a loaf.  She shakes her head denying me the bread. "We don't open until 10 am. That is when the market is open." I stare at her blankly. One of my arms full of veggie starts, the other holding salad mix bought from other tables carrying on business. 

I curse her under my breath stopping short of wishing her ill will. I've been her in the past when I ran behind a clock.
I promise myself everyday to slow down and listen. 

At home.
I plant the towering beef tomato and the basil in the same container. 
It is cold outside. 
The weather doesn't matter these days.
It doesn't change anything when you spend most of your time indoors.

Tomorrow is a blank wall.
I can write my own story. 
I just don't have a beginning or an end.
Right now.
I feel stuck in the middle. 

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