There is a basil plant lost in the shadows. Once upon a time the family used it in fresh pasta sauce, now it wilts in the coming and going of a busy kitchen. Nobody has watered it so its leaves droop like the shoulders of a brow-beaten husband. The kids have gotten used to it so they no longer talk to it like it’s a pet, especially since they got Marxie, the stupid Golden Retriever. There’s no room for it to grow in its pot where it sits in the window looking out on a vast green world it knows nothing about. There are drawings the kids did on the fridge. It’s only piece of pride in the world is in the bottom corner a drawing of it lives, with the moniker Mr Jenkins written in purple crayon above it.
He never liked that name, always felt it sounded too formal, but now that poor basil plant wishes it were called it one more time. For old times sake.