It was a pleasure to burn the taut skin of the eggplant,
see it shrivel and blacken with the heat.
The smell reminded me of home,
when my mother would make this chutney,
standing over the stove, the sweat gleaming on her skin,
while she deftly turned the vegetable evenly charring the purple curves.
She looked lovely, her pale skin soft and dewy,
cooking with love for her family.
As the aroma filled the kitchen, I switched off the flame,
laid the cooked eggplant on a plate to cool,
and reached for the cleaver.
I looked out the window at the verdant yard.
The wildflowers were blooming,
raining down the sloped boundary in a riot of color.
The chipmunks were out and about rooting in the grass
and the resident badger scampered purposefully to his burrow.
I could hear the faint gurgling of the stream that cut across the front yard,
and the warbling and twittering of the birds whose names I didn’t know.
The westerly sun poured in, warming my skin, and I lifted up my face,
closing my eyes and thinking, another spring has come,
another awakening of hope from the long winter gone by.
We had moved into this house just two years ago,
a mid-century dream in a beautiful property,
far from the city and the madding crowd.
It sprawled low along the land,
the trees towering over the roofline,
with an open and airy interior where the spaces flowed into each other.
I dreamed of the children growing up here,
making memories that would last a lifetime.
I had wanted to move closer to the city,
but he liked the quiet and unhurried pace of the countryside.
I didn’t care much because I wanted to be with him.
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