Food Memory
It's been years since I've done the ritual, but the motions are automatic, like breathing. The water is simmering on the stove. I take the ball of unsweetened cocoa out of the brown cotton bag, smelling its bitter promise. I bought it from one of the cocoa estates up Santa Cruz way in preparation. Store-bought cocoa powder lacks the flavour found in the sun-dried, hand-ground beans grown locally.
I grate about two tablespoons worth into the water - she'd always liked it strong. The cinnamon bark is outside on a tea cloth, warming in the noon sun. I break off a strip and add it to the mixture, then slowly bring it to a boil, singing the words she'd taught me.
Once the cocoa has dissolved, I lower the heat and carefully add the milk and brown sugar to the dark liquid a little at a time until I have enough for two cups. I pour the rich mixture into two white mugs then carry them to the kitchen table set for two, with the white candle flickering in the middle. I rest one mug at the empty place opposite me, then take my seat, staring at the candle with the hot mug between my hands. Thinking of her. Calling her.
Waiting.
"Nani, it's getting cold." I whisper. I hardly ever use the term, but I hoped to irritate her enough so she'd respond.
I feel the familiar tweak of my ear as she passes, and the candle flickers though there's no wind. I can't see her, but I hear her speak. Her voice is distant.
"I am here beti lal."
I feel the tears coming. I hadn't been sure she'd still be around to hear me, or if she'd kept enough of herself to remember the things she'd loved and the people who loved her.
"Gran..." is all I manage to say before the sobs take me.
I feel her presence surround me, and I cry harder. I can't get the words out to tell her about the attempts I'd made to end it, the shame, the sickness, the fears and the feeling that I've failed everyone, but she understands.
After a while, she speaks. "You are still here. You will get through this. You are stronger than you know." Her love surrounds me, comforting me, then she's gone.
I will get through this.
I am never alone.
I rest my head on the table before me for a long while, gathering myself to face the future before I start drinking the cocoa.
I grate about two tablespoons worth into the water - she'd always liked it strong. The cinnamon bark is outside on a tea cloth, warming in the noon sun. I break off a strip and add it to the mixture, then slowly bring it to a boil, singing the words she'd taught me.
Once the cocoa has dissolved, I lower the heat and carefully add the milk and brown sugar to the dark liquid a little at a time until I have enough for two cups. I pour the rich mixture into two white mugs then carry them to the kitchen table set for two, with the white candle flickering in the middle. I rest one mug at the empty place opposite me, then take my seat, staring at the candle with the hot mug between my hands. Thinking of her. Calling her.
Waiting.
"Nani, it's getting cold." I whisper. I hardly ever use the term, but I hoped to irritate her enough so she'd respond.
I feel the familiar tweak of my ear as she passes, and the candle flickers though there's no wind. I can't see her, but I hear her speak. Her voice is distant.
"I am here beti lal."
I feel the tears coming. I hadn't been sure she'd still be around to hear me, or if she'd kept enough of herself to remember the things she'd loved and the people who loved her.
"Gran..." is all I manage to say before the sobs take me.
I feel her presence surround me, and I cry harder. I can't get the words out to tell her about the attempts I'd made to end it, the shame, the sickness, the fears and the feeling that I've failed everyone, but she understands.
After a while, she speaks. "You are still here. You will get through this. You are stronger than you know." Her love surrounds me, comforting me, then she's gone.
I will get through this.
I am never alone.
I rest my head on the table before me for a long while, gathering myself to face the future before I start drinking the cocoa.