I am growing a small herb garden, my first, in my balcony and suddenly I am personifying. The oregano, planted from cuttings, is being such a show off. It has yet to grow roots and already it is flourishing. It is practically operatic in the way its shoots break out of the thin bark a week into its replanting when considered beside the basil, my more timid old-timer. Mornings I give each cutting a quick tug and turn it over to see if it has taken root. Not one, and it baffles me how each can, not just survive, but thrive. That the tug might damage any incipient root growth I am well aware of, so that sometimes it may seem I check for roots to check its ego. The basil has stopped growing and bears absolutely no resemblance to the show-stopping enthusiasm promised on the seed packet it came in. Out of the numerous seeds thrown into the soil came up only three. What started purple from each stem and stained the bottom of the midrib with childish affront has now waffled into a…what? Each leaf is a weak call from a previously wild throat. Poor basil barely two inches tall, almost heroic in the way it stands there, stunted for weeks now. I inspect it carefully for any sign of infection to be able to isolate it from the thriving, hardworking oregano as early as possible. I look under each leaf with a mirror for any lurking blight, afraid that my touch might do further damage and ready to accept what it can offer: death, or weak survival—it’s hard to say but I give it its due. And I treat it much more gently than I do the hardier oregano that must endure ignoble poking and pulling and tugging and testing, my untrained heart hoping that neither of us will mistake the brutal quality that sometimes characterizes intimacy and responsibility for coldness or hostility.
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Missing Minggoy
I miss Minggoy too!