Red Ink by Julie Mayhew

Author:Julie Mayhew [Julie Mayhew]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Hot Key Books
Published: 2012-10-29T16:00:00+00:00

THE STORY

4

This is the recipe.

Take five pounds of hulled whole wheat. Hold it in your arms. Feel that it weighs nothing compared to the load that lays heavy on your heart. Wash the wheat, let your tears join in. Strike a match, strike up faith, light the gas. Watch the wheat bubble and boil. See steam rising like hope. Take the pot from the heat and pour the wheat through a sieve. Lay the grain on a sheet overnight to dry. Rest your head on your own sheets. Dream of a flower dying, shedding its seeds, allowing another flower to grow.

In the morning, on the day of remembrance, put the wheat in a bowl with walnuts, almonds and parsley. Add a message of devotion, a wish for the future, your gratitude to God. Sprinkle in cinnamon, not guilt. Throw in sesame seeds, throw away your fear. Turn out your mixture and create a mound – a monument to love. Brown some flour and sift. Add a layer of sugar. Press flat. Finally, crush the skin of a pomegranate with the remains of your fury, and spread the seeds with love, in the shape of a cross.

Maria did not dream of a flower dying. The night before her mother’s funeral, she did not sleep at all. She pressed one of Mama’s cardigans close to her face, letting it transport her back to a farm where cistus shrubs turn the air bittersweet. She listened to Melon’s snuffling breaths, envying the way her daughter remained untouched by grief. She thought of the day ahead, the day she would return her mother to the earth. She was not ready to let her go.

Auntie Eleni had outlined the ceremony and recommended a plot. She had also pressed into Maria’s hands the pamphlet containing the recipe for the traditional kollyva – the boiled wheat.

“But I can’t cook,” said Maria, scanning the recipe. “I can’t do it.”

“You will find it within yourself,” Eleni insisted.

And so she had.

Letters and phone calls to the farm received no response. With his silence, Babas made it clear that he would not be journeying to England to bury his wife. Maria and Eleni would go to the funeral alone. Melon stayed with a considerate neighbour, playing with a collection of toys on their hearth rug, unaware of the furious rainstorm outside.

Maria couldn’t help but find the downpour fitting. She wanted to feel the rain on her skin, have it cleanse her of her grief. She imagined the ancient river Lardanos, the river of holy water, evaporating into the air in Crete and falling on London’s streets. With her hair soaked through, Maria walked behind Mama’s coffin, and she listened to them read the psalm:

For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.

Maria placed the resurrection icon in Mama’s hands and on her forehead they placed a wreath.

Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.

Maria and Eleni took up candles, received light from the priest and watched the fire burn.

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