Of course, that was the same year the tomatoes never came of age.They remained that reserved, childish green all season, like heat heavy in the lungs,sweat brimming beneath the collarbone—an itch, a burn unsatisfied. Kept quiet.Like standing water everywhere that summer, held at the lip of boiling.And her mother fretted over the plants all season too, out each morning checking the soil,the skin, for where such a muted denial could begin.Her mother hated summer—the sweat, the heat. She blamed the heat.Too hot for anything to want to bloomfrom any cage, especially those sternly-held, chlorophyll