Cilantro

by Conor O’Rourke
photo by Sean David Bradley
 

I had planted the cilantro on a whim a few weeks before and been surprised at how quickly it had grown. Barely three weeks had passed since I had pressed the seeds into the damp earth of the pot on my windowsill; for me, a new haircut, for this plant, a whole lifetime. Harvesting it was harder than I thought it would be. You have to be careful when you touch the silky green leaves, so tiny and impossibly soft, for fear of marring their perfectly mint-colored surfaces with dark, blackish bruises. I have never been so gentle with a plant before.

She looked at me as I gingerly washed the herbs in a water-filled sink, gently stirring the leaves and stems, taking care not to tangle them. I wondered why I took such care to protect something I intended to attack with a knife so soon.

“Why do you do that?” she asked, reading my mind.

“Do what?” I played dumb.

“Why are you being so careful with that stuff?” I wanted to explain about the tangles and dark bruises, but hesitated. “Are you avoiding something?”

I didn’t answer. No one would know if the leaves had been bruised or not, not after I chopped them. I didn’t know how to tell her about it.

I blinked and didn’t say the words. It didn’t feel right to say, even now, even though I had always known that I wouldn’t go with her. And that she wouldn’t come with me. The reality was that I couldn’t ask her to. I felt that I had lost my chance, and now her life there was moving, she had healed and started something, and it was in a place I could not go. How could I tear her away from that? Better to stay here at the sink, washing stalks, waiting.

There had been one moment, two years ago, but I hadn’t seen it then, hadn’t even wanted it really. Did I even want it now? Was I really in love with her, or just with the idea that I had lost my chance with her? If she did want to come with me, would I even want her to?

I looked at the bird’s nest of plant matter in the now empty sink. The tender stalks would surely be damaged in the act of untangling. It didn’t matter anyway. I roughly gathered and chopped the herbs, ignoring darkening bruises left by my frustrated fingertips. This was easy enough to do. I still hadn’t answered her question. ◥