Copyright © 2019 Nur Hassanain. 
All rights reserved.

Cinnamon

Home smelled like cinnamon the day everyone flew in.

Each one from a discrete nook in the world; & I, from Boston.

There was a lot of side chatter, silently smiling faces, clinking of cups & gift unwrapping.

It went on for a handful of days.

I remember thinking, “I need to take all of this in. It would make a good poem.”

But I was left with snippets of these moments

& decided that poetry was not the reason I was so observant.

It was departure.

Hello smelled like apple cake & fresh mansaf, looked like cigarette smoke & my siblings pressed in between the corners of two couches, tasted like ba’laweh & sounded like my mother singing along with Om Kulthoum late at night.

They all left one after the other, & my trip back was a week later.

That night, the house grew quiet. It smelled like goodbyes & half-eaten chestnuts. The beds were empty & the curtains pulled shut. I wondered why I attach to things. Why words are my time capsule & why everything beautiful comes at a cost.

I cried on the way back. Not for being alone again, but for the two people left to endure the absence of all the rest of us. The plane landed a few hours before midnight, & I was greeted with a different kind of hello.

The hollow kind that sounds like an abrupt farewell & leaves you in utter silence.

So I wondered why humans have the capacity to hurt people that they claim they love.

Perhaps love brings a false sense of security that justifies pain.

When I closed the phone I opened the jar of cinnamon sticks, closed my eyes & inhaled what was thousands of miles away from Boston.

I felt safe again.



Charles River

61 views