fresh and squeezy
a big straw in the middle
resting in my six-year-old hands
in the back of a car
bumping toward Abidjan.
The soft aroma
of Quaker strawberry oats
rising at six in the morning
my first attempt at cooking
fifteen years old
just before my tenth board exams.
The quick sting of fear
oil snapping in the pan
peanuts crackling sharp
in a tiny hotel room
where I stirred poha
on an induction stove
a crowded weekday morning.
Three distinct smells
three distinct times
memories laced with fruit and nuts
delicious and vivid
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