The Basil Thief

Sometimes the story depends on who's telling it.

I was busy squeezing avocados.
Appropriately, respectfully.
I was just looking for one in the avocado bin
that could be eaten without waiting a day or two.

I noticed something to my right.
My mom,
holding a handful of crushed fresh basil leaves to her face
inhaling deeply and smiling.

I looked down at the mutilated basil plant, its foliage ripped in half.

“What are you doing, Mom?”

What I really meant was  —

Why did you do that, Mom?

“I like smelling basil.”
“It reminds me of pizza.”
“It makes me think pizza is coming.” 

I thought of Nathaniel Branden, who famously said:
“No one is coming.”

Should I tell her? 

My mom tucked the basil into her pocket.

“It will grow back,” she said.
“Let’s go, Mom.”

I’m so sorry,
I whispered to the dying plant.

P.S.

I sent this letter to my mother. She read it thoughtfully, then smiled and said, "I was pruning it. I was helping it grow." 

We all decide what we notice. What we explain. Which story lets us live with ourselves. 
If reading one of my letters allows you to remain the hero of your own story, who am I to say the letter has not done its job?

Has someone you love ever explained something in a way only they could?

Tell me about them.