My mother kills basil.
Too much water.
Sodden roots.
Flooded.

But my basil survives.
No, it thrives.
Urban herb.
Persistent.

Care instructions: gut instinct.
Inch of water.
Mist leaves.
Sun.

To retrieve: clip bottom.
To slice: chiffonade.
DON’T RIP.
Fragrant.

Drop in Sunday gravy.
Ribbon atop pasta.
Drizzle balsamic.
Caprese.

Neurotic checks of soil.
Is it moist?
Or dry?
Repeat.

“How does it feel?”
“A walking stereotype,”
You joke.
“Nurturing?”

Something to care for.
Mothering living things.
Being childless.
Pet-less.

But I don’t agree.
It’s self care.
Or compulsion.
Control.

I’ll keep it alive.
There’s no alternative.
Committed now.
Principles.

Who am I kidding?
It’s entrenched behavior.
To kill.
Drown.

I’ll rip the leaves.
The dying ones.
For comfort.
Mine.

I’ve ripped the leaves.
Can’t bear decay.
Not mine.
Yours.

© 2022 Andrea Festa