I sit here, enjoying the smooth, frothy elixir swirl as I stir it in my oversized china cup. The spoon tinkles as I smile with an anxious impatience, waiting to take in its bittersweet deliciousness on a cold winter afternoon. Ever since I decided upon taking my SAT classes in a remote, small town, this quaint coffee shop has become my second home. I love the bustle, the warmth from a nearby fireplace, the food. It epitomizes my Sunday, for I cannot remember a past weekend in which I did not stop in for a lemon sugar muffin or a simple cup of cinnamon coffee.
What is it about food that gives me a feeling of home? It's possible that it dates back to my childhood in India. Each and every day, my mother and father would leave for work, and I would be sent to an old lady, our former neighbor. I would call her "Kaku," short for the word aunt in my native language, Marathi. As long as I am able to remember, she was my caretaker since the young age of six months. I am not able to recount the exact moments, yet I can tell she was like a mother to me. Every day she would make me the most special of Indian delicacies- seafood curries, lamb kabobs, and only the best desserts. She protected me as if I was her own.
I wish the news of her death impacted me more than a simple passage of news. She left an entire summer ago, and I only heard of it last week. Yet all I can do is reminisce the faint memories I have of my past. I don't even remember her face...
In essence, death can configure itself into two faces. A mere everyday occurrence, happening in a regular and timely fashion. Or, it could be one of vital impact. A blow to the head. Death is both complex and common, consistent and customary.
In the end, you must be the one to decide its true potential.
