Ocimum Basilicum

Harold looked at the terra cotta pots lined on his windowsill and closed his eyes really tight.

Grow. Please grow. Why won't you grow?

He clenched his fists tight. As if he were pulling the strings of fate, willing with all his might for the tiny buds he had planted to find the strength to open up and push their little nubs to reach the surface of the moist soil, revel in the cool spring air, and taste the sweetness of sunshine.

He had been told that basil was one of the easiest things to grow. And it tasted great, so why didn't everyone have a basil bush in their kitchen? Martha, from the gardening store, had assured him that it was easier than digging a hole.

Harold promised himself at that moment he would never trust anyone named "Martha" ever again.

He waited.

But like waiting for a pot of water to boil, it seemed like eternity for anything to happen. And that worried him. What if he had done something wrong? What if he had bought the potting soil that had too much fertilizer in it? What if he had packed the dirt in too tightly and the seeds were suffocating? What if he hadn't positioned the seeds in the optimum measured spatial areas recommended on the seed packet? What if he had overwatered it? Or underwatered it? He grabbed his spray bottle and squirted a mist of water and he watched the beads of liquid cling to the lumps of dirt and then vanish into the absorbant soil.

Maybe his prize winning green thumb that he had built up in his head was merely a quioxtic whimsy. He sat there imagining a dissected thumb with a putrid olive color wriggling next to the stubborn basil plants.

Suddenly, the terra cotta pots had been personified into bullyish heathens flinging their contents of soil in his face, laughing at his hand that now only boasted four sad fat digits.

The terra cotta plants had now sprouted squiggly black legs adorned with plastic garden clogs. And arms with heavy duty goatskin gloves on their oily hands. They weilded sharp pruners, pointy spades, and shiny loppers that dripped sinister plans for Harold. Harold leapt up but was tackled by the heavy yet reasonably priced pots. Why had he bought so many?

They pounced on his back tied his legs with hose. (Where did that hose come from?) They used gardening string for his arms behind his back. (Did Martha trick him somehow into buying gardening string?) They continued to torture him taking snips at his clothes and pruning his curly hair. He squeaked as each curly lock floated down before his eyes. Suddenly, he felt the pots going for his thumbs. They were going to chop off his thumbs!! He felt the sharp edges of the pruner slide around his right digit....

Then everything went black. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his kitchen floor. What time was it? How long had he been knocked out? He must have fainted from his daydream stupor.

In the process, he had tipped over all the pots save one small one in the corner.
And when he looked over the rim, he gave a small yelp of pleasure.
The first buds had begun to sprout to the surface.

He gave a sigh and cleaned up the dirt and broken pots that had been knocked over (or somehow miraculously lost their sinister powers. )

And though it was painful at first, Harold spent the rest of the night sewing back on his green thumb.