Lit in Progress

Marcheta’s eyebrows drew together over her thinnish nose as she set the plant flat carefully on the patio floor. She dipped her hands into the potting soil bag, feeling the soil’s warmth through her gloves. Handful after handful, she filled the terra cotta pot, the resin one that looked like stone, the plastic trough, the painted ceramic her daughter’s daughter had made in school last year. Her fingers made imprecise holes, cradles for the herbs, the tomatoes, the marigolds. She breathed, and worked, slowly. “That’s the way,” she said companionably, settling the fragrant rosemary into its place. “There you go; you’ll like it here, you’ll see.”

The rosemary was quite sure she was right.