Layers
Flakes of fragile white and slabs of dense darkness fall onto my tongue.
The lightness melts instantly, the cloying shadow lingers.
I try to remember the last time I have allowed myself this treat. I try to remember the last time he brought me here after the zoo or Sea World, Balboa Park or the Bay. It is not a secret place but back then it was a warehouse full of mystery at the edge of downtown.
The shelves of Cost Plus held biscuits and soups and spices with foreign writing and cute little bears on the wrappers. My dad would wander around, past the kitchen displays, picking up little bells or bamboo whisks. He would browse through the coffee section then head straight for the only thing he would buy: the hazelnut wafers. It became a ritual. We would share a few packages, my sisters, my dad and I, as we drove home in the stationwagon smelling of dogs and wet carpet on lazy Sunday afternoons, sun slanting through the Eucalyptus on the 163.
Did he find comfort in the escape into sweetness? Or was it the recognition of labels on spices from Africa, cookies from Europe, reminding him of travel, of freedom?
I know it sounds silly, but now I wander through Cost Plus when I'm in a funk and feel a sense of relief and excitement. It feels familiar. I pick up candles and mugs, sit on ottomans, flip through rugs I will never buy.
And I know exactly where those cookies are, even though most of the time I pass them by.
But I am wandering a lot these days, maybe not for the same reasons as he did, but wandering just the same. And I am willing to explore what I used to know. So when I let those layers of wheat and chocolate dissolve into nothingness between teeth that contain his DNA, I smile. I savor both sweet and dark. I forgive.
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