A meal for Grief

A man sobs at a table in a closed kitchen, dim lights suggest there is an empty dining area in the next room. A large chef of Scandinavian decent begins the meat grinder, he combines spices along with cinnamon. “Harald, you must come and help”, the man gets up while wiping his tears with his handkerchief and gives an agreeable nod. Rune instructs him to incorporate and massage the ground meat while he makes the dough. “Now we wait, the dough will rise as the mixture marinades” Rune says, as he takes his hat off revealing curly orange hair. Removing his apron he leads Harald to the coat rack. The back door is red, a striking contrast with the brownstone areaway, a small slot window sits to the right. It’s a crisp cool night in Sigtuna, the half-moon illuminates the cobblestone street while still protecting secrets and encouraging mischief to brew. The passing clouds help blanket the thieves and no goods alike. Harald ponders the morals of his latest deed as they continue to walk.

Harald finds his keys and heads into his house while Rune sits in the garden and lights a pipe. Inside it is a quaint dwelling for one, he keeps it neat and minimal only a few two tone photos displayed in frames. One is of Harald and his dog in the garden; another is of them up close, face to face. The third picture is on a clothed round table next to a chamberstick; it’s of a lady holding a small pup. A tall pewter jug accompanies two glasses. Harold shuffles around the pantry and finally pulls out a small pie box. He places it in a willow weaved basket; the pillow that lines the bottom is covered in remnants of dog hair.

Back at the restaurant, Rune rolls out the dough and places it in the dish to prepare it for filling, he says “ok” and passes the dish to Harald. Just in that moment two knocks are made at the backdoor. Rune takes a stew pot out of a warmer and goes over to open the slot window and finds a saddened women with red swollen eyes. “Em” He’s concise to show sympathy and omit the insincerity of small talk, she gives eye contact and continues “I didn’t have anything to carry it in”. He puts up his finger and closes the window slot, wraps two thick towels over the iron pot and opens the door. “It’ll keep you warm on your way” he gives her a thin cylindrical object “remember”? She carries the pot up to her face and nods yes. “and I will bring the pot back”. Rune watches her carefully walk back up the stairs to the street before he goes back inside. He seals the pie and glosses the braided edge with butter before putting it in the oven. “I’ll ask the gods to hear you and Em tonight”.

Harald walks home alone this time; holding the basket with one hand and the other on top of the warm box, this was a comfort for his cold hands but when he thought of the meal he was about to consume, his stomach gurgled. He was in a strange limbo of emotions and thought to stall by clipping some flowers. Is this hunger, grief, guilt, or shame? It’s too late now; the first part of the process is done. He put the pie box on the table and poured wine between two glasses as Rune instructed and set one on the other side of the table with the picture facing him. “Ah here we are, all back together again, having a meal. Cinnamon, I picked your favorite, the sweet asters are still here braving the fall. My lovely Anette, I poured us your favorite, Madeira… my dear a” he let out a humored exhalation and sat to ponder the lift of pain. Right-he remembers what the ceremony promised, Rune’s gift and those he’s helped by it. Here in this clarity he truly felt their presence and he welcomed the gurgling in his stomach to mean hunger and began to crave the meat pie as any other meal he would be sharing with Anette and Cinnamon. He took out a candle from his pocket, unwrapped it and placed it in the chamberstick. Then struck a match to light it and read the scrolled paper.

My friend you left and I carry this pain

Help me feel your presence again

Your shell broke and spirit rose

If the wine is drank you don’t oppose

to be my companion in invisible clothes

Harald savored his meal while talking to Anette and Cinnamon and when he finished up, he blew out the candle and left everything as it was. He felt as though he had revived his family and wanted to soak in that moment not dispose of it, he soon drifted off and had the best sleep in a long time. When he woke up the window was cracked open and a swift breeze whooshed right in, he was confused for a moment what in the devil?...oh yes. Cracking the window was the last part of the ceremony. Harald was not sure what to expect, he tried to cling to the happiness of sheer belief void of proof. He replayed the lovely dinner and if nothing else was certain his send off to cinnamon was the most honorary thing he could do whether understood by others or not. It was a private affair, she was already gone and I meant well. Just as he was struggling to weigh the ethics of it all, he noticed there was no wine in the glass. Oh? There was too much of it to have evaporated…no wine on the floor…just under his breath he recites, “if the wine is drank you don’t oppose”. His vision drifts to the other part of the house where the basket sits, there in the basket an apparition of Cinnamon sat too. He slowly walked over with bursting glee in his eyes. “oh my dear cinny, it is you” though she appeared ghostly, he reached out to touch her and there was a physical resistance. He took her out of the basket and he hugged her, while she gave licks they weren’t wet. This phenomenon took a while to get use to and was indescribable to others who had not done the ritual but he had Em and a few other townsmen who had- to acknowledge Cin’s existence with. This meant Cinny was able to be with Harald when he passes and it gave him great joy and extended years to know as much.