Fiction

Aroma Therapy

Leftovers. It’s all about the leftovers, he reminds himself as he pops the stuffed young bird rubbed from neck to scrawny wing-tip with olive oil and fresh thyme, into the 168 C oven. The comforting smell of browning meat soon fills the empty apartment.

Shifting from foot to foot in the tiny kitchen, he faces the sink, reaches for and begins to peel three russet potatoes. On the counter a handful of fresh brussel sprouts lie scattered around a bunch of carrots, green on orange. He will be slack about the cranberry sauce he decides, unable to muster the energy to make it from scratch like his mother did, once for Thanksgiving and once for Christmas, each year, but at least he’ll have the canned stuff.

He places three pots on the stovetop, one for potatoes, one for vegetables. The third he puts on the back burner set to simmer, empties a bottle of inexpensive burgundy and sprinkles cinnamon sticks, whole cloves and sliced oranges into the rich purple mixture, the piece de la resistance.

Before long there’s the aroma of Christmas; succulent sherry laced stuffing, braised turkey, mulled wine drift through the 600 square feet of urban living space. He puts on Christmas Carol Favourites, lights candles on the mantle where fresh boughs are displayed above three hanging stockings. Bing Crosby’s enchanting White Christmas begins and he looks out his bay window to discover that it is snowing.

He reminisces of Christmases past, gathering of friends, family, his own sister, mother and father. It was all about the food then; the harvest, preparation, flavours, then the sharing, laughter and merriment. It seems only yesterday they were together around the long oak table. Now he is here, adjusting to this new life.

The music has stopped. He picks-up the remote, changes the setting to DVD, pops in It’s A Wonderful Life and presses play. He walks to the kitchen, fills his plate, pours a mug of mulled wine and settles in.

Hours later, the screen is grey. His empty plate rests on the coffee table, his body splayed across the sofa, one arm on his forehead, the other slung over his stomach. A gentle rumble can be heard as he snores softly.

He misses the call from Mexico, a blinking red light on the handset the only indication the phone has rung. The machine holds the message from the boy and girl: Hey Dad, Feliz Navidad! We had chicken tonight ‘cause that’s all they have here, but we made your stuffing and went from store to store until we found canned cranberries.
Pause. And we got to break a Pinata that mom’s boyfriend bought us. That was so cool.
Pause. We miss you Dad. See you soon.

He will feel the tug of voices hugging the receiver as the boy and girl try to get close to him. He will sense their love. Now the night is silent, like the snow falling through an unburdened atmosphere, landing gently, piling on plush, white mounds, piling, and piling until stillness envelops.