My black thumb

One of my most vivid memories from when we lived in Michigan was my mom taking my sister Lindsey and I to the nursery and letting us pick out whatever little potted plant we wanted to bring home and grow. I always picked marigolds. From what I recall, so did Lindsey.

I doted on my plants, watered them every day, made sure they had sun, and they always died. Lindsey ignored her plants, and instead spent time playing with toys and what not, and her plants thrived. THRIVED.

This should have been my first sign that I was just one of those people who was not meant to raise plants.

I blatantly ignored the crystal clear signs and decided to proceed with my herb garden, planting one little pot of chives and another of sweet basil on the back patio last week. And this is what I came home to two days later:

Spontaneous combustion? The neighbor's cat? I'm not sure what caused the demise of my chives. All I know is that clearly someone is trying to tell me something.