Full Sun

The Post-it said Monday Wednesday Friday.

A quarter cup. I had done exactly that.

The south window was the best one in the apartment.

I'd read that rosemary wants heat,

wants light, wants to feel

like somewhere dry and useful.

The tips went gray this week.

First just the ends—

the new growth, the part

that was supposed to be proof.

I stood at the cabinet.

The Post-it was half-peeled already

at one corner.

I pulled it off. The sticky part

was still good, still trying to hold.

I folded it in half.

Then in half again.

I held the small square

longer than I needed to.

The pot was still on the sill.

The window still faced south.

I put the square in the trash

and went to make dinner.

The rosemary was still there when I came back.

I don't know what I was checking.