Tuesday obituary: Rosemary

by Sahar Tavakoli

Woesmary: My rosemary plant has died in Milan, Italy. Born on the rocky coasts lining the Mediterranean, the supposedly hardy perennial lasted about a month, month and a half tops.

It came with a resume that did not require any garnishing. In its early career it had been an embalmer, making wood tar oils in the mortuary temples of the Dier al-Bahari. Sometimes, in the form of sprigs, it would chaperone the recently departed on their travels to the Duat. Branching out from its work with the already-dead, Pliny the Elder, would note that Rosemary “effects the cure of wounds, prolapsus of the rectum, condylomata, and piles,” also noting that it was “useful for cough.” Nor did Rosemary limit itself to the medical sphere. It appeared in no fewer than five of Shakespeare’s plays, made cologne for Napoleon Bonaparte, and topped many a focaccia.

On my balcony, however, the Rosemary had only one job: to not die. It was the fourth potted rosemary I’d invited to live with me since I moved into the place, all of them having died in similarly mysterious circumstances. Through the Middle Ages, it had protected homes from bad air and evil but now, in 2023, nothing would protect the Rosemary from whatever curse hovers over my north-facing balcony.

Set during the Italian unification, Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa’s novel, Il Gattopardo, opens with a scene of death in a summer garden. The passage is heavy. Excess and decay settle on the reader like humid air before a downpour, sun-warmed lemon oil mixing with rotten meat, recalling the oddly sweet smell of a hot garbage bag awaiting collection. Late summer on my balcony in Milan smells more like cigarettes and rust kicked up from the tram tracks five stories below and the only lemon in sight is made of plastic. Nonetheless, here too a death lay hidden amongst the foliage. The Rosemary didn’t have thrips, white fly, or root rot. It just had enough.

Rosemary is survived by two chili plants, parsley, chives, basil*, an avocado tree, and mint. Those seeking to pay their respects can find Rosemary’s remains dried and stored in my pantry.

* Years ago, while sitting on a cushion on the floor of my small Sydney apartment, my friend Anson described basil as “the choleric Victorian child of herbs;” existing only to die suddenly and dramatically at what ought to be the prime of its leafy life. My basil is thriving.

* Years ago, while sitting on a cushion on the floor of my small Sydney apartment, my friend Anson described basil as “the choleric Victorian child of herbs;” existing only to die suddenly and dramatically at what ought to be the prime of its leafy life. My basil is thriving.