SPICES
The rocks beneath David’s feet felt like daggers — daggers that belonged in his heart.
The smell of his mother’s spice garden enveloped him in a sense of calm he inscribed in his skin, if only to ignore the truth in the marrow of his bones.
Does she know how much I miss her, he asked the winking night sky.
Ants crawled over his bare feet, reminding him of the feeling of Ochi’s fingers on his arm whenever they went to the movies. Tears sprang into his eyes and he laughed harshly.
I wonder who she’s touching now, he said to the worm sitting beside him in the dirt.
He didn’t care. He really didn’t. When he’d said so to his friends earlier in the day, they’d laughed.
"You dey form hard guy abi?" they asked.
He didn’t bother replying. Now alone with his thoughts behind his house, he was free to face the truth.
And yet, he continued to wrap himself with scents of thyme and rosemary.
I miss her house, he thought. I miss the fun I had there.
It was easier for everyone to believe that his morose attitude was because of Ochi. After all, hadn’t they been a couple?
The spices allowed his mind to drift to happier times, when he had the safety net of their relationship. He wanted those memories locked up in a tree at the other end of the world — the kind of place hidden love letters went to die.
But most of all, he wanted her mother, and the games they used to play. Too bad Ochi wanted to play too.
