Gorge

Had an inflammation, needed antibiotics. While waiting at the pharmacy, grabbed a healthy snack that was nuts as I'd need to eat prior to taking meds.

Came home and excitedly waved my bag of salted pistachios at RJ. "Shelled!" I announced, big smile, wide eyes.

"But that is the fun part!" Replied RJ.

I felt sad then. "I used to feel that way," I said.

I was taken back to a fond memory of my mother, my brother W and me sitting around cracking open pistachios. Pistachios were a novelty then, a new import from the U.S. of A. I wouldn't have imagined that years later I'd be living where those pistachios had come from.

"Happy nuts", my mother called pistachios. (And other Canto-speakers did, too. But it didn't matter.) Because they appeared to be grinning.

Cutest thing!

It was gratifying to peel them one by one, stuff each precious morsel in your mouth, until your tender fingertips hurt and you didn't care. You kept going. And it was oddly satisfying to watch a heap of moonlight-shade shells grow on our glass-lined dining table, debris and all. My mother has OCD and that must have been a rare occasion of a devil-may-care attitude of hers toward what would generally be considered a mess.

Of course, I didn't know what OCD was, or that my mother had it. All I remember is savoring the umami in my mouth. It was the taste of happiness. I don't recall speaking much at the table while enjoying pistachios, but, if that wasn't love!

I don't have many memories of genuine bonding with my mother and this was one of them.

I recall that W was the one who introduced me to shelled pistachios, decades later. He could chuck a voluminous helping in one sitting. Nothing to pop, nothing to clean up. How convenient! We agreed.

I had forgotten the joy of shelling pistachios.

Have W and I both eschewed the peeling ritual because our mother is not in the vicinity to participate? I am not certain.

And by not in the vicinity, it's more like an ocean apart. Not having my parents near - I am not sure I am ever getting over the sense of loss. And the overwhelming sadness that comes with it that I have denied for over thirty years.

There is no reconciliation. Just the relief of having cherished memories. No much relief, really.