Hugging a cold steel mixing bowl, I gently prepare to transfer scentless spices of a life now burned out. I fight the urge to fold, mix, stir and blend her, thinking maybe I can still fix her sunken brittle life.
I start taller and go smaller. I’m breathless with each level-headed portion, shoveling grainy mounds into each small container, one for you, one for you, one for you, and one for me-
1 tablespoon: I hunger for her
1/2 teaspoon: My aching heart begins to water
1/4 teaspoon: My mouth runs dry
1/8 teaspoon: My starving soul cries out
A Pinch: Salty passionate drops burn my eyes; I try clenching a blinding-white memory between my teeth
—with gritty gray fingers and shattered nails, I scrape from the bottom to the lip; Everyone gets their fair share. Each tiny box is filled and sealed, ready to be split and shared forever.
She died exactly 6 months ago, and today’s my birthday. I’ve had the chance to run my fingers through her and now I know it’s true; some just don’t come pre-sifted.
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