Cinnamon

She was always wrapped in cinnamon.
Her aroma was a mixture of brown and gold oak
stacked together like firewood,
as was her house on the side of the mountain
made from a similar material, 
perhaps christened with it. 
Her hair rained cinnamon dust
and her hands were smeared with dough.
The house always smelled of cinnamon too.
We'd smell it four houses over on our walk there. 
She'd take out a laughably small pot,
add three cinnamon sticks,
and let it boil.
That's how we were always greeted.
Instead of spraying perfume around the house, or Febreze,
she'd boil cinnamon sticks.
Our breath carried the earthy sweetness of the cinnamon, too,
as we'd help her make cinnamon buns.
We'd secretly lick the sugar,
licking our fingers before squashing them
into the small white china bowl
and then sticking our fingers,
now crystalized with cinnamon sugar,
onto our tongues.
By far, it was the most unsanitary thing to do,
but she never complained,
her faint smile knowing, but never cross.
She even laughed like cinnamon,
an airy buff of pure joy; she sounded like
a lilting bird learning how to fly with clouds.
The throaty chuckle spread ever so softly
until it coated everything in a thin layer of giggles. 
Her posture was cinnamon.
For just as the spice rests in an imposing-looking jar,
so did she have an imposing, royal stature.
Unmoving.
Gazing out over the free view of the mountainside –
a picture one would pay millions to walk by every day –
the stoic shadow an exact replica
of the mighty cinnamon jar in the unsanded pantry. 
All apples are cinnamon, thanks to her.
For she would dust each sliced piece of fruit
with the spice. "Just a sprinkle," she'd say. 
And the apple would be so juicy and so dry at the same time,
it always left our mouths confused
as to what was just eaten.
Was it simply sweet dust
or wet dew
cradled inside an apple skin?
Most importantly, her memory is cinnamon.
Any time the smell meets my nose,
the powder touches my fingertips,
or the taste melts on my tongue,
I see her.
The woman on the mountain. 
This smell has a certain power to stimulate
the best childhood days and outline them in
a fresh coat of bellowing memories for me to walk through,
to remember her by
and love her through –
as only a distant friend can love another. 
Some have a picture from sight,
a blanket for touch, 
a cologne for smell,
or recipe for taste.
Not I.
All were cinnamon.