By the time I called him over to smell the herbs,
I’d been buying potted supermarket herbs all week.
Before our furniture and boxes arrived from Porto, I had bought an elevated planter at Action.
About one LP wide and two long.
He found bags of potting soil in the garage, dark, soft, flaky. Perfect.
The basil I’d bought for Chicken Pad Kra Pao had doubled in size.
That got prime location.
Dill.
Rosemary.
Mint.
Schnittlauch.
Cilantro.
Fragrant, bright.
By the time I put away my small gardening shovel, I had stood still and silent by my planter.
My eyes on the different shades and shapes of green.
My hips dropped,
my pelvis softened,
I stepped out of my cork sandals,
placed my bare feet on our tile floor, matte and cool.
