She smelled of
onions and paprika.
She brought her hand to her mouth
and the taste of raw potato lingered on her tongue and lips...
earth, she tasted, it was earth.
Grounded,
ground pepper,
garlic,
italian...thyme, basil, spices...a tablespoon here,
a pinch there,
whisk together with the fork.
The chicken she rubbed had been six weeks old at its time of death.
She worshiped the chicken,
thanked the chicken,
massaged the red, green, fragrant powder into its skin and muscles as though she were easing its tension, releasing the pain of sore joints...
she massaged the chicken as though it were still alive.
Each touch, delicate,
so gentle,
she held the body so delicately,
not wanting to pull on the legs or joints.
She spoke to the six week old bird...thank you...she said.
Hoping all the while that this,
the first whole chicken she had ever cooked,
would turn out well.
That she would not disappoint the memory of the bird
and that it would nourish and fill the belly of her love.
She waited with anticipation for the first bite.
