You know my tomato plant? The one bestowed upon me by my mother? The five-foot-tall plant that, as yet, has produced one edible tomato? Welp, someone stole it.
I went to sit on our back porch to read and spy on my neighbors, er. And I recalled how I hadn't watered my tomato plant in ... a couple days. I looked down to the landing on our dangerously steep staircase and no tomato plant.
I suppose this isn't the worst thing that could happen in our Midtown neighborhood, and my Zen-y yoga instructor noted that perhaps the person who stole my tomatoes needed them more than I do.
I have my suspects. Chiefly, the neighbors who disappeared around the same time as my plant. I'm guessing they got evicted from the basement of the tenement house next door. Not to judge or anything. Hope they make some fine bruschetta.