It leans toward the sun, unashamed of wanting warmth. Each leaf holds the curve of a green flame, soft at the edge, sharp at the scent. I brush my fingers against it, and it answers—not with words, but with memory: of kitchens heavy with garlic and steam, of hands tearing leaves into bowls like blessings.

Basil is not new. It has walked beside us through centuries. In the courtyards of India, it was holy. In the markets of ancient Rome, medicinal. The Greeks named it for kings. In Haiti, it guarded the doorway to the spirit world. In medieval Europe, it was feared and revered in equal breath—thought to sprout only when cursed, yet tucked into pockets to ward off evil.

And now, it grows in a clay pot on my deck. No altar, no temple. Just the sun, the breeze, and my quiet admiration. It asks for so little—light, water, a touch—and gives so much: flavor, comfort, memory, ritual. I cannot walk past without touching it. I cannot taste a tomato without thinking of it.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and I’m in my grandmother’s kitchen. The blender hums. Basil, pine nuts, parmesan, garlic. A little olive oil. She calls it pesto, but it is more than a sauce—it is a spell. She spoons it into a bowl, and we sit at the table with sleeves rolled up and sleeves of saltines. No ceremony, just the afternoon sun and the sound of us crunching, dipping, savoring. A sacred snack. A small joy that feels like a ritual. 

Basil does not bloom with flowers,

but with memory.

And when it does,

I am safe. I am home.