Cinnamon

For a while there Peter turned his head away from the window and toward the door. He lay that way in his bed for a while, hoping some soul might enter his room and prop the door open. Open the window a crack, please, he asked. Bring me a cup of ice please, he cracked. A picture of a moon hangs above his closet. The moon is black as tar on the bottom, a frothing firmament of sea rising below. A hurricane forming. Vast waters draping edges of the portrait like curtains an open window. The doctors say Peter is just fine. He does not feel fine. His baby sister has just died. She reminded him of a gingerbread man. She was plump and smelled of ginger and nutmeg. His mother smelled of cinnamon. Peter tried making gingerbread recently, but the cinnamon was too strong.

He didn’t even put cinnamon in.

Peter’s big white dog yaps downstairs. She is the color of snow and a little lighter than the carpet. The color of lace if lace feels like flour. Peter is annoyed at this dog, although he used to love her. Funny how loving gets so very old. Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. “They” are correct. Perhaps this is why Peter loves his sister so. She is not familiar and never was. Often, Peter thinks of the everyday things that would be different if she were around. The cinnamon roll in the middle is his today. He wishes they could split it. He wishes she could have it. Damn. Mom brings up the pan of rolls and her hair floats around her head, dead skin around a dead face.  Peter licks his lips, reaching down to grab the middle roll.

it’s already gone.