My Mother

If I could taste the memory of my mother. She’d taste like spring air, dirt and cut grass. Like snow and smoke and chocolate. She would taste the way a warm blanket feels. When you warm cold fingers by the heat of the radiator. Pain but then relief. Sharp as a blade, soft as butter. She would taste of her delicious chicken recipe. Of homemade soup and squash. Of vegetables straight from the garden. Of sun on your back and wind on your face. Of comfy worn in shoes. She would taste of the perfect crunchy leaf. The sound of falling snow. Of thunder and lightning storms, terrifying and exhilarating. She wouldn’t taste of sugar because that would curl my tongue. She would taste of honey lemon tea, delicious and warm. She would taste of cinnamon on toast. She would taste like clouds. She would taste of jam preserves made from the black berries we gathered. If I could taste the memory of my mother she would taste like home.

Her death tasted of a punch to the gut, of bile and a breath not taken. It tasted like a burn. The metal and tang of blood. Maybe I’m just biting my tongue. It tasted of tears and salty ocean spray.  Brine and mold and rust. It tasted like the feeling of choking on air. It tasted like bad morning breath and my least favorite food. It tasted like sitting on the bathroom floor waiting to be sick. It tasted like a headache, with rushing blood and pounding temples, swirly black vision. It tasted like a scraped knee, gravel and rubbing alcohol. It tasted like a twisted ankle throbbing and sharp, dull and aching. A tugging at the base of my throat. It tasted like a fork scraping on your plate, aggravating and jarring. It tasted like ashes. Ashes filling my lungs and choking me with their dusty acid spice. Stale and broken was my mouth as she took her last breath.  Every vile thing crossed my tongue as my mother turned to dust.