Herb Garden

I have been trying to grow my own herbs, but they keep dying. Everyone says it’s so easy to grow herbs, but not for me. Sometimes they make it for a little while, tiny leaves reaching for the sky, but soon they dry out and fold over, exasperated by their short lives. I’ve tried everything, I’ve read everything. All the books and the blogs and the apps. I tried different climates, different soils. But nothing works, as if they are insisting not to live.

It all started because I went to a friend’s house upstate, and was intoxicated by the smells of her garden. The earthiness of the basil, of mint so sharp it was sweet. Lavender I could bury myself in and fall asleep. It’s so fresh, I said. So fresh, I repeated, loudly and enthusiastically, the way I sometimes do. I was too used to the dull stench of urine and garbage in the subway, of the mildewy smell that came from my air conditioning unit. I smelled fresh earth and oregano and I had a new vision of what my life could look like. I had seen people grow tomatoes on their rooftop, why couldn’t I do the same? I imagined myself roasting whole chickens with fresh-grown rosemary, of scrambled eggs in the morning with red onions and chives. Of chopping fresh herbs in our tiny kitchen, the smells wafting into the other rooms. I couldn’t stop talking about it, the whole car ride home, that my boyfriend said enough already, will you shut up please and we stopped at the hardware store.

I placed the little red plastic bins in the corner of our rooftop, and I didn’t wear gloves when I stuck my hands in the dirt. I felt proud, walking around with dirt under my fingernails. Of looking at my dirty cuticles while I typed away on a laptop. I didn’t care that it was unprofessional. And I waited. I planned the meals I would make, the dinner parties I would throw (with what friends? No one visited us anymore). The sun was cruel those months, heat rising from the asphalt. Perhaps that was the problem. Nothing grew. No parsley, no dill, no oregano. People had all sort of recommendations, although they sometimes sounded like accusations. Are you giving it too much sunlight? Too little? Are you overcrowding the seeds? One of my neighbors suggested I sing to them, and this advice made the most sense to me, so I did. I sang them lullabies, quiet at first, then loudly, unashamed if anyone came up to the roof and heard me.

The Fourth of July was stressful, and I almost gave up on my herb garden. And then -- the tiniest bit of sage appeared. I ran around the roof in a victory lap, the humidity so thick I had to stop and catch my breath. I thought about everything I could do with sage. Butternut squash ravioli, or maybe mashed sweet potato with browned butter. I could dry and ground it, make tea. I could bundle and burn it, cleanse my apartment. It sure needed some cleansing. My boyfriend was slamming doors, and I was spending a lot of time on the roof, singing to my herbs. The next morning, before he woke up -- he was so peaceful, when he was asleep -- I walked up to the roof with a cold brew in my hands. I could already feel it, as soon as I opened the door, the hot air like a sauna and my heart sinking: wilted and dead. I sat on the ground, my thighs burning through my jeans, holding the soggy stems in my palms. Nevertheless, day after day, I returned up to my rooftop, the sun beating the back of my neck, and tended to my garden. I had no idea if I was watering the herbs too much, or too little, but I watered them, careful not to drown the ants or the ladybugs that crawled around the containers.

By the end of the summer, my boyfriend moved out of the apartment. He took most of the furniture, claiming it was his. It probably was. He said I would never be able to afford this place on my own, but I didn’t want to leave. I liked the roof too much. And I continued to work on my herb garden.

When the days get shorter, the air colder, I bring my herbs inside and they clutter the window sills in my half-empty apartment. I have really expanded it — my garden has tripled in size, but it’s still mostly soil. People are sick of hearing me talk about my herb garden, with barely anything to show for it, but I will never get tired of it. I can’t help myself. I talk and talk and talk. I did get cilantro for a few days, early one autumn, and I ate it plain, letting it sit on my tongue. I had mint for two whole weeks. I added the leaves to lemonade, which I drank alone while watching the sun set on the rooftop, the sky flush with apricot and hot pink. But everything dies quickly. Every season, I get a little bit closer to something longer lasting. And I dream about oregano and thyme, of grilled vegetables and pasta and fish from the market and three-course meals. Of mashed potatoes with dill, and roast duck with French tarragon. I close my eyes and I can already smell it. Everyone’s so sick of me talking about it: my mom, my colleagues, my friends. Not everyone has a green thumb, they said. You know, you can buy them fresh at the supermarket. This is getting obsessive. Find another hobby.

What they don't understand is that it's not even about the herbs. It's about putting my clean hands in the dirt, even when I don't need to, and feeling the cold steady earth. It's about planting seeds, and waiting. And hoping. The hope is enough to sustain me.