Seasoning

Tonight I made dinner, just to go through the motions. That feeling just after six, when the last light disappears behind the mountain, but the hum and rumble of the generator is not to be expected until a little past seven. Hungry? Probably. But more than that, something to pass the time in the darkness. In the quiet. 

I made spaghetti with all the vegetables I had bought in the market this week. Mushrooms, onions, garlic, sweet peppers, zucchini, tomatoes, and a little lemon. Casually splattering the sauce with salt, basil, and oregano, I figured, it would all come together. Spaghetti.

And it did. Tangy and salty. If not satisfying, filling, and nutritious. 

But having finished, I felt no different than before I ate.

Hungry. Full. 

Empty. 

There is a difference.

Loneliness is emptying.

And when we are not filling ourselves with distractions, we find it.

The question then comes,

Well. What does it mean.

More than likely, that I have a moderate dose of that seasonal light disorder.

That I am not meant to operate alone. 

And that I am not a chef. 

Filling up the kettle with water, lighting a match and bringing it to the burner, boiling some water for tea. 

I sat down in the darkness, put my hands to my face. 

They smell like garlic. They smell like Steve's hands.

My sweet, garlic handed, handicapped, orphaned Haitian friend. Family. 

I smell my hands and smile. 

There are a lot worse things than cooking dinner for one.