Friday, April 11, 2008

Friday, April 11, 2008

Friday April, 11, 2008. If we both water the plant we'll drown it. This April sun won't strike up the rays needed to dry the puddles resting against the roots. This is your morning wake up call.

(A white lace curtain, sun streaming through it's holes, moves slightly in the breeze. Behind it are the shadows of branches, buds opening on end, moving in the breeze too.)
The spice rack is the most romantic thing in the kitchen. Scent activates memory like no other sense can. Like rain fallen on hot cement, waiting in the grocery store parking lot. Basil--my mother's hands radiating heat, close to my ear, trimming hair. Rosemary--the back of my throat, waiting by the front window for your headlights to slide across making shadows on the wall. Paprika--forgiveness on your lips. Oregano--my grandmothers kitchen, always; we'd sit on the dock and turn bread loafs into balls between finger and thumb for the fish, for the birds, for whatever wild life was hungry. Curry--a sun-soaked India; an elephant-soaked India; an India with Bombay; an India that has never existed. I'll drip the vanilla in the pan and simmer. I'll slice the aloe leaf open, dab my closest pulse points. Wake up.

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