pungent

I could smell the sweet spices Mama used in the curry chicken. It was her specialty, a dish her own mother taught her. Her brother was visiting. I hadn't seen Uncle since I was three, so I vaguely remembered his thick beard and deep set eyes, like Mama's eyes.

Mama was rolling the pink breasts in the flour and stewing it in the curry. She was humming old love songs as she cooked. I stood next to her by the stove. I didn't realize how the wrinkles behind her eyes creased heavier. Age had also covered her skin on her once-smooth hands. I wondered if Uncle would remember Mama as his younger sister, or would the wrinkles hide her youthful smile.

It was hard to smile now though. When Papa died the house turned still. Uncle was coming to make sure Mama was okay. I didn't understand how he could make things better. I watched the curry slowly rising, reaching the brim. I could let it boil over I thought. Instead I lifted the lid to let the cool air smother the sauce. Sometimes I wish I wouldn't have to do anything, that life would fix itself.