I am alone in my room, sitting by the window, looking out. Through the cobweb-thin fabric of the curtain I can see the street. The last rays of the sun paint the leaves of the tree in front of our house gold. The wind rustles the leaves. The branches reach only as far as the glass, yet I feel the cool touch of leaves on my face. The shadows dance in a shimmering play across the wall.
Photo by Diane on Unsplash
I close my eyes. Reality fades. Dreams lifts me and carries me gently along. I am traveling. I do not yet know where this journey will lead.
Always to a place where time can turn into taste. Eric Satie comes to mind. His music, like slowly sipped tea, is a faithful companion in moments like this. But it’s late now; this time I set off without him.
A few weeks ago, in the bathroom – this is the first stop. My feet are soaking in rosemary-scented water, the steam weaving an invisible wreath of spices around my head. Its fragrance mingles with the promise of coffee. Ants scurry beside the basin. I watch them carrying their crumb-sized world. After the footbath I pour a cup of hot coffee and sprinkle cinnamon on top. I hold my breath as I take the first sip. Bitterness and sweetness arrive together within me. Nothing feels better.
Photo by Sueda Dilli
I move on. Northern clouds race by. Before my eyes the angel of death turns into a dove of peace, then vanishes like the scent drifting from a bakery into the street. No one else will see it. But I know it was there.
A late-evening street scene opens before me. A wild plum tree releases a cool, floral fragrance. Somewhere, I stop and sit down in a comfortable chair. I draw figure eights with my knees, rocking gently, like a wooden spoon stirring a pot of soup.
Half-light wraps around me as I lean against a kitchen counter. Unwashed plates and tea-stained mugs gather around me as if to offer comfort. I think about how I disliked many things today, how I was sad, and almost cried. But I ate. I drank. The soup was warm, the coffee strong, the slice of the cake sweet. Today, there were more bad feelings than good – and yet it felt good to be alive. Who can explain that?
And still, a quiet tension coils beneath the warmth, a shadow lingering at the edges of comfort.Dense darkness covers everything. Fever and restless turning. I fall into the depths. The monsters are hungry, their claws and teeth flashing. Then an invisible hand lifts me, and the touch of the palms feels as comforting as a bowl of hot food placed in front of me. It holds me, puts me back together. My axis is cracked, but it still carries me. Again.
I sit cross-legged on gravelly sand that covers everything. It clings to my skin. A lakeside wind flutters my clothes: lemon-yellow fabric with orange crabs printed on it. Like a table laid for guests – beautiful!
The sand disappears. I am on a tram, rattling through a city. The loveliest sight is the flowers on the narrow strip between the lanes, like a carefully arranged side dish. I watch them, and a chill runs through me, the way it does when you drink water after freshly baked bread.
Then I begin to warm up again. Somewhere in the world, the sun is already shining . I sit in the grass, weaving dandelions and daisies into a wreath – a decoration for the center of the table. A familiar, long-forgotten scent reaches me. I know where I am, feeling the warmth spread outward, touching the world around me.
I cross the yard toward the house. On the covered porch, a table is set. The waxed tablecloth is cracked, the plates and cutlery worn but clean. Chicken stew steams in a red clay pot. The meat has fallen from the thighs, the bone showing. There are dumplings and a head of lettuce in vinegar. The sun-ripened leaves crunch. The thick sauce clings to the corner of my mouth. Every bite here is a memory. I do not want to leave.
But I know this is the end. The flight is over. The pace slows. I land. I am sitting on the couch again, running my hand over the soft fabric. My eyes are closed. In my palms, I imagine the warm mug, the taste, the steam.
Everything is as it was before. The window, the leaves, the light. I linger a little longer in the frozen moment, thinking: life can become flavor within us.
Featured image: Ashley Montgomery Design
Show Comments