Cherries

Prose

You would sit across from me in just an apron, nothing else. Having spent hours in the kitchen, you’d return to the table with a bowl full of fresh strawberries, single cream and sugar. We would return to our last conversation and add more to its morbid recipe.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

In an attempt to distract me, you would feed me maraschino cherries. The juice mixes with my tears to form an unusual cocktail. I’d start wailing like a baby, and you’d sing me a lullaby to soothe me. Explaining why you had to leave is not how you expected to spend your last visit.

You collect my tears and the rest of the juice from the jar of cherries and siphon it into a shot glass. Knocking back the dregs of despair, you wipe your mouth and kiss me one last time.