…said no alchemist ever! We love the heat! We love the anger! So let’s cook with it. Here’s my recipe!
1/8 pinch of zest
1/2 cup of grief
And my story:
I sit on the park bench looking down at cocoa powder stains on my white converse. The break room. Everyone needs a pick me up every now and then. Grief’s funny that way. My uncle died last week. Not my moms brother, her sister’s husband. But he was my uncle. My g-dfather, the man who was supposed to care for me if something happened to my parents. Now he’s gone.
He taught me how to count while I drove to make sure I wasn’t tail gating. Because of him, I know to tap the tab on my soda can. The bubbles travel to the bottom of the can so it doesn’t explode.
Now he’s gone.
People say I should be okay. He was “just” my uncle. Just my uncle.
Today was a bad day. First day back at work. I’m a research assistant at Columbia. It’s about a 10 minute walk from Central Park
I went to the break room to make hot chocolate. There’s something about hot chocolate. Usually, people go to coffee for a pick me up but hot chocolate has an innocence about it. It reminds me of when I was a child. Before he died. Now he’s gone.
Cinnamon. Why not? Adds a nice zest. The cocoa powder escapes its Neste enclosure and descends on my shoes.
Enough for today. Time for a walk.
I put on my hoodie. I keep it in my desk. I pass a friend from work. No- not a friend. An acquaintance at best. She puts her hand on my shoulder and gives a slight squeeze of encouragement. Almost as if to say hang in there, kiddo.
So back to the bench. In my hoodie, cocoa powder on my shoes. Now I’m here. Now he’s gone.