Flavor of the Weak

Hugging a steel mixing bowl, I gently prepare to transfer scentless spices of a life burned through. I fight the urge to prepare a celebratory cake. The life she led, and the lies she fed, made us sick of her flavor.

I start taller and go smaller. I hold my breath with each even portion, shoveling grainy mounds of her into small containers; 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 grit under my shattered nails, I scrape from the bottom to the lip, making sure everyone gets their fair share. I split her evenly between four tiny boxes and prepare three to be mailed.

She died six months ago, her mini caskets arrived yesterday. Now that I’ve run my fingers through her, she’s taught me a final lesson: Some lives don’t come pre-sifted.

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