• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 09

Your Spaghetti

I worked it out.

552 days.

Or – 1 year, 6 months, 4 days.

And when I think about it too deeply, my belly aches and my eyes fill up.

And I don’t know what to say. The words won’t come.

So I decide to fill my mouth up.

Garlic, lemon zest, fresh basil.

Olives in oil, not brine, that you brought over so long ago. The jar is almost finished.

I measure them out carefully, sparks of glossy darkness.

A pinch of sugar to bring out the best in the slow-cooking tomatoes, just like you taught me.

They will never taste as good as the ones from home. But we work with what we’ve got.

I sit down to eat, and I send you a picture, and I look outside at the grey sky, and my eyes fill up again.

I twirl the spaghetti around the tines of my fork, and think about all the times we sat around a table together without a second thought.

I will never take a second of time together for granted ever again.

I will savour every bite.