The only plant Corrin had found himself capable of growing was parsley, which was good since it was Liz’s favourite and if he couldn’t manage that he’d never live it down. When they first started dating Liz took Corrin by the hand and dragged him up a hill behind her house where ages ago someone had planted parsley on the sunny side. She tightened her fingers around the base of a stem plentiful with leaves.
“This way it grows back faster,” she said as she plucked another off and handed it to Corrin. His eyes widened as she slipped the raw sprig between her lips and began to chew. He didn’t want to offend so he followed suit and hesitantly began grinding the leaves between his teeth. He had not braced himself for such a strong flavour. The sharp, peppery notes coupled with an earthen musk made for a shock to the tastebuds, but the longer he chewed the more he grew to enjoy it. Not only the flavour but the motion itself -- the texture between his jaw. The sun was on its way down and from up on the hill time seemed to stop. They looked to each other and smiled. Liz began to chuckle as the stem sticking out from Corrin’s lips was exceedingly long and drooped over his wide smile. Corrin laughed as well. They did this once a week from then on.
When they moved to the city, Liz started a garden on their flat’s balcony. Six large clay pots filled with soil and, from left to right, tomatoes, mint, basil, some flowering bush Corrin could never recall the name of, thyme, and parsley. These would of course rotate with the seasons, but that was the garden as Corrin remembered it. Liz had been wonderful at upkeeping it. She would spend afternoons out on the balcony just tending to the plants and Corrin would come outside and offer her a glass of wine which she would refuse at first and then later shoot him a toothy grin that made clear her change of heart. Sometimes he would just sit out there and read and she would get just as lost in the minute details of each leaf and stem as Corrin would in the fantastic worlds he held in his palm. Then as dusk fell they would chew their sprigs and enjoy each other’s silence, needing nothing to fill the absence of sound.
Today was Sunday and Corrin wasn’t working so he decided he would pick a couple of sprigs and bring them to Liz. He remembered her specific lecture on only ever picking what you needed when you needed it; pick too much and it’ll go to waste. So as much as his heart demanded he bring her a basket full, he just picked the two sprigs, one for her and one for him. She wasn’t all that far out of town, but it was still a bit of a trial to leave the city, especially mid-day on a Sunday. In traffic like this, they used to play games. Liz would give Corrin three clues and he had to guess the movie she was thinking of. He was horrible at it, but this made his occasional success all the more triumphant. Nowadays he would run through those memories which didn’t pass the time quite as well but did was preferable to the radio. They never played what he liked anyhow and the hosts were all too cynical.
Once he broke free from city limits it was only another ten or fifteen minutes before his destination appeared before him. He had no trouble navigating the rows of headstones and in a moment was kneeling by Liz’s own. In the mulch beneath her epitaph, Corrin nestled one sprig of parsley, leaves first. This left the stem poking out in a rather strange manner that several passersby on days to come would twist up their faces at, but it was right for Corrin. It was right for Liz. Corrin took the other sprig and bit down on the leaves and chewed that bright flavour to life.
They sat a while and said nothing.