27: gardening update

 It's been months now since I started the five little pots on the window in my college rental. Since then, the basil has really outdone itself to make me feel like I can keep something alive.

I had been ready to throw in the towel on the chive. Its five thin blades were like a piece of the saddest lawn ever. Then, suddenly, they thickened, split and became a deeper shade of green. The almost olive shoots come up three from a single root at this point.

All I can think of when I look at the thin–but now in a seemingly healthy way, sturdy and slender–lines in the earthen pot is a hot baguette and chêvre. Scissor-cutting the chive over goat cheese and smearing the mess together with a smidge of garlic before slathering it onto the spongy interior of fresh bread.

I admit that the leaves on the basil look a bit sad at this point. That is because I've recently pinched back the top bit. I was told to do this by a woman Dad and I did work for, a fellow Francophile with an enormous pot of basil. Pinch it back or it will outgrow itself. The lower leaves were yellowing. I pinched back the top, tiny leaves. I harvested the good leaves (and cooked them into some sautéed onions and mushrooms for dinner).

I've learned that a bit of yellow isn't a bad thing–it's not always a baby crying. Instead of throwing everything at it–water, pinching-back, shade–I give it a chance to correct itself. Basil survives in the wild, without man. It can survive on the deck, on a hot day with a little wilting, green itself back up with a little water at night and shoot out new leaves by morning.

This is my tangible success, waiting for me each time I walk onto the deck. The front porch is a different story.

I have tried to convince myself that this is not death. But if that isn't the worst cancer a plant has ever had, then I don't know what. Mom thought the leaves were yellowing due to a bit too much water. I cut back the watering. We thought the spots came from a plant spray. It hasn't been sprayed.

This isn't helping. Each day as I check the mail, I notice that the dahlia is one rattling breath closer to death. I try to ignore how symbolic this feels for several aspects of my life. I try to focus on how symbolic the last bloom could be.