i'll never be a poet

a letter on growth

my dearest anastasia,

when i first gifted you that little straw satchel of basil seeds, my heart was warmed by the brilliant beam that split across your rosy face. i patted them into the soft soil in your ivory pot and taught you how to care for them, how to water them adequately, how much sunlight you should let them have, and most importantly, how sweetly you are strongly encouraged to speak to them. little by little, cells building upon cells past germination, tiny shooters emerged, and the day their green tips peeked through the soil you squealed and flung yourself at me in ecstasy, and i swelled with happiness. every day, you continued to diligently look after them, but as time went on and you grew, other hobbies and interests stole you away, and your basil began to droop. one day you came home to an especially miserable-looking bush, each leaf hanging its dry head low, and a great phantom maroon wave possessed you and you began pummeling it with your palms, striking and beating, raking and flinging, clumps of soil and flattened leaves lying in solemn silence around the pot on the ground. then you folded to the ground as well and mourned. the next day, you shuffled up to me to ask for more seeds so you could start over, and i gave them to you and pushed each new egg into freshly loosened dirt in your flowerpot. you restarted your strict, diligent process of watering, sunning and singing, and within a week it had sprung to life under a practised green thumb. then softball grabbed you by the elbow and dragged you away again, leaving your progress to wilt. and so began the cycle of germination, growth, decay and death, the last stage constantly incited by the bashing of a furious softball bat or the vicious uprooting of the plant, deep fingernail tracks left in the soil. lilting melodies twisted into gritty screams, while the plant was either drowned in seven and a half litres of water, or left parched for days on end, its shrivelled leaves puckered at the tips gasping for a drop of moisture. every time you missed a day, you took your feelings of failure out on your object of nurturing instead and started over. sometimes, it took a long while before you resumed your gentle caretaking responsibilies- you wanted to give up and snip off the whole thing, vegetable juice oozing down your skin, and upend the pot into a hole in the ground you've prepared through ferocious digging by claw. those days i couldn't sleep a wink, heart in my throat and a ever-knitting knot in my stomach as i kept watch over your comings and goings.

please, anastasia, all you need to do is forgive yourself. forgive yourself when you stumble along the way, and continue watering and singing like you did the day before. that's all you need to do, my little gardener. for i gave you everything you own, everything you wanted and more, but you trample on the soil i softened and yank out the seeds i planted for you. did i not give these to you because you so dearly desired them? what are you afraid of losing, my dear?