A forest of basil:
I don’t have many basil plants right now, but what I do have badly needed to be cut back, so tonight was the night, and it was time to make some pesto. I like pesto, but I didn’t want to do it.
I was feeling rather melancholy – rather. Just a bit, not a lot, because I won’t allow myself that. But yes, a bit, it being Father’s Day Eve, and me, as of eight months ago, almost to the day, having no father left living on earth to call, and then there’s them, of course.
But, I realized with a shock as evening fell, it’s the fourth Father’s Day since Mike died. Fourth.
Wow. It might just be time, it came to me rather clearly as I sat there on the porch contemplating the basil that needed to be cut back and not wanting to do it, and more specifically, not wanting to chop and work it by hand (because that’s the way you’re supposed to do it) – yes, it just might be time to stop avoiding it, running from it for fear of the work of confronting the tears and sadness and deep, persistent awareness of absence, and to yes, celebrate it.
Because little boys should celebrate their father, and be glad for him. Of course.
Don’t know what we’ll do. I’ll figure that out in the morning.
But tonight, around 9:30, which is really past bedtime, even in the summer, we tackled the basil, cut a bunch, stripped those leaves, chopped,crushed and banged. And we made pesto.