Stepping out mornings into my sunny garden
Coffee mug in one hand, I turn on the hose
with the other.
Cool water showers the herbs and I hear
a quiet applause rise
in me for their perseverance—
those deer did not return.
I pinch buds from the basil and the scent
bursts like green confetti into
my nose and move on
to my mother-in-law’s orchid.
It’s lived 13 years without her now —
Lived with her a decade before that
neglected by her and now by me
who neglected both.
And yet it endures.
Like her, it keeps on giving.
I’ve pruned my guilt about it but
it grows back like her orchid’s improbable
blooms, a sweet gift and a silent
rebuke.
Back in the kitchen,
the basil’s scent won’t let go.
Each time I brush hair from my eyes,
a wave of green spice fills
me up and quiets the sting
of that regret and of children
who take too long to call.
But when they do, it’s not the basil’s calm
but the sudden, soaring thrill I feel
when seeing that orchid bloom again.
