Each Christmas we buy rosemary, a small tree, in a little plastic pot, with a red or gold bow. It's a tradition Jon and I began a while back and I don't recall exactly why, which is ironic since rosemary is for remembrance. Every year we buy it and every year I try to keep it alive and plant it. Every year I fail. Except last year. Last year I managed to keep the rosemary alive. It thrived and grew, fragrant and full in its pot. I kept saying I needed to plant it but wasn't sure where, and felt worried that transferring it would end my happy steak of luck with the herb. Then we lost Bubba . As a memorial to him, we decided to plant a garden with his grave. Now the rosemary had a spot and a purpose. It has flourished there, too, along with the beautiful hibiscus---golden, of course. This year, so far, until today I have forgotten to buy rosemary. Another small fetch of irony. Or not. Perhaps I have let go of what I was trying to remember, or perhaps having finally succeeded ...