I know by heart, par cœur, how tomatoes feel in my hands:
the small slits I make with a smooth knife to peel them without damaging
their heart-like flesh
the texture, sometimes more liquid, sometimes more lumpy
the intense, sweet smell in summer
the blood-colored pulp staining the cutting board that I will rub over and over again.
I thought and rethought this text in front of my cutting board. It’s what I do, and perhaps it’s what too many of us do, over and over again, in front of the cutting board.
I thought of Lea, of her heart tomatoes, and I remembered a remarkable discovery I made a few years ago: courage comes from cor, Latin for heart, and I read somewhere that it could mean “telling our truth with our hearts.”
I thought again of Lea’s pieces: singing the truth from the heart with her hands.
text by Rita Carolina Silva
