The Void Between Hearts ~~ongoing~~

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  2|ℬᎾℳᎯ

   
   WALKING DOWN THE STAIRS, I watch as the whiteness of my bare feet contrasts the blackness of the cold tiles. I'm a bit shaken up by my recent symptoms, but still careful enough to avoid the empty ceramic vases lining the sides of the stairs.

   I walk into the kitchen, this would probably be the millionth time, yet each time, I hate the pink tiles even more because it's just another one of Mom's interests that doesn't mirror mine.

   I watch her quietly. She's dressed in another ankle length brocade kaftan, matching the brownness of her skin with a turban of the same material wound too seriously around her head. 

   She doesn't notice my presence because she's so busy ransacking the big shelves above the tiled counter. They're too high for her to reach without standing on the tip of her toes, and normally, I would help her reach what she's looking for, but not when I know it's probably a secret stash of cinnamon.

   She heaves excitedly when her fingers grasp the bottle.

   My voice pops out of nowhere. "Morning Mom!"

    The bottle falls out of her hand, instantly spilling her precious spice. I pick up the broom and packer resting by the humming deep freezer, wasting no time to sweep away the cinnamon before she can save any.

   "Hey, sweetheart"—she wipes some sweat off her forehead—"you nearly killed your mother."

   "I'm sorry." I hug her. She smells cinnamony as usual. 

   "Did you sleep well?" She caresses my non-existent cheeks.

   I smile, nodding dishonestly. 

    "Your shorts," she squints, observing my legs. "They look shorter. Did you get taller?" 

   I look down at my legs, the yellow tennis shorts stop where they've stopped for almost a year, quarter way down my thighs. "I don't think so." I reply.

   "And your hair."

   "Ouch! Mom!" 

   She stops tugging at it, a small frown creeping into her face. "When last did you condition? You've turned it into a fireball."

   "I'll condition it before bed." I reply, tucking the rebel curl back into the puff.

   "I could help you, I miss doing your hair." 

    I laugh. "I'll pass. You take too long with it."

   "That's because I have more experience and I do it better."

   "I'll still pass. I'm sorry."

   She shakes her head. "Sometimes I don't like having a teenager."

    I laugh. "Are we pretending that you didn't just lose your cocaine?"

   "Yes. As a matter of fact, that's exactly what we're doing."

   I shrug. "Works for me. Anything but cinnamon. "

   "I see, you startled me on purpose."

   "Nope," I lie. "Not even if I wanted to get back at you for putting your cinnamon air-freshener in my bathroom."

   "Right," she hangs her hand on her slim waist. "I knew one of mine was missing. " 

   "I trashed it though, in case you were hoping to get it back." 

   "Why?"

   "Because I hate it?"

 She gasps with laughing eyes, then walks to the fridge; I smile at the new ice-cream bucket when she opens it to pull out her carton of almond milk. Cinnamon. Pink. Plant based milk. Weird detox recipes. OCD, and optimism has never been more Mom.