April 2, 2019

cilantro

For days, a cluster of cilantro has been leaning against the left side of a thick glass,
its stems submerged in tap water and a twist tie wrapped around its middle. Nearby,
meals and cocktails have been assembled, bowls of popcorn poured into coral-hued
ceramic bowls, sleepy conversations held over cups of dark French roast. By the time
we leave this beach house, it’s possible no one will have snipped any leaves into an
impromptu salsa, or minced a handful into a salad, or even stooped over the counter
to inhale a bright, grassy whiff. Maybe when we reached into that particular chilled bin
in the produce aisle, what we were thinking about was spring, and how long we had
waited for this reunion, and how relieved we were that our bodies were still carrying
the same deep joy we’d remembered, our own greenness right at our fingertips.