My six-year-old considers each basil leaf before pulling it,
every so often asking, Daddy, is this one OK?
We chat about school, her girlfriends, movies,
how she thinks Pocahontas is a good role model
because she saves people. I ask her
if she would like to save people one day
and she giggles, Maybe. So much depends
on this preparation—the way we assemble
the basil, garlic, pine nuts, olive oil;
our talk about the things that matter:
her best friend threatening to abandon her
if she doesn't give up her other friends,
her fear of playing soccer on the local team,
the boys she likes but can't invite over
because it's not cool to be friendly with them.
 
I tell her how much I love the smell of basil,
how it reminds me of the open-air markets in Lucca
and yes, we need to go to Italy together.
Islands with names like Lipari, Stromboli, their beaches
so white they gleam under the stars.
The ice-cream that tastes like pure hazelnuts.
Sculptures like Michelangelo's Captives, so real
they seem to be breaking free from the stone.
The abundance of figs the size of her small fist.