Season of Salt and Honey by Hannah Tunnicliffe Read Free Book Online

doesn’t call my name again, doesn’t turn the handle. There’s the shhh shhh of cardboard moving against the front step, and her exhaling, and the crunching over stones and leaves to get to the car. I hear the car door open and close again, and finally, finally, the engine turning over.
    Only when the sound of the car has completely disappeared do I get up and open the door. There, in the sunset, is a large fruit box. I see the tops of cans, smell coffee, see my pajamas folded on top of a neat pile of clothes.
    *  *  *
    I lift the box into the cabin and sort through the contents. T-shirts and jeans, a pair of shoes, a sweater. Mail that looks likebills, which I ignore. Pink- and blue-lidded Tupperware containers. Arancini , Uncle Mario’s homemade salami, cotolette in aluminum foil, a bag of apples, sliced provolone, another bag holding half a loaf. Leftovers from the wake. No cucumber sandwiches. Aunty Rosa’s cannoli. My silver coffeepot and grinds. Everything arranged carefully in the big box, like a puzzle. Now, with the contents littered all over the bed, it looks like Bella’s bed did at Christmas. I always pulled each present from my stocking slowly, and arranged them in ordered piles, making the anticipation last as long as possible. And, if I’m being honest, to aggravate my sister. Her frustration at my neatness, my snail-slow pace, was a gift in itself.
    I change into jeans and a T-shirt, clean underwear and socks. It’s a relief to be out of the black dress, which I ball up and shove into the top shelf of the closet. I put the rest of the clothes and the sneakers in the closet next to the man boots, and the food and coffeepot on the counter by the sink. I leave the mail in the box. There is no toothbrush or toothpaste. I run my tongue over my teeth; they feel slick and dirty. I can’t remember a time I went longer than twelve hours without brushing my teeth.
    I wash my hands, and sit at the tiny table, and bite into the crust of a lukewarm arancino , wondering which relative made them. The rice is sticky and the filling salty and cheesy. I lick my fingertips, then fold slices of provolone into my mouth. This is Papa and Aunty food. Comfort food.
    Afterwards, I find a flashlight that doubles as a hanging lamp and hook it up so the cabin has some light as the sun vanishes, swallowed by the forest. Soon the night noises will start. Owls;creatures hunting for food to feed their furred or feathered families. I press down firmly on the Tupperware lids and put them in a plastic bag, the handles of which I knot together.
    I curl up in bed with the book, knees to my chest and stomach full. As a child I read practically anything—classified ads, recipes on the backs of food packets, the bits of old Italian newspapers that lined drawers. I couldn’t understand all the words but I traced my finger along the fat, rolling vowels, tasting out the sounds in whispers. I have always been in love with words. My earliest memory is of Mama reading me stories, stumbling over the English that sounded awkward and glassy from her mouth, her kisses pressed into my hair. I have only a handful of memories of her, and those are the most precious. Quiet times, full of love and words.
    Elizabeth, the mother in The Swiss Family Robinson, reminds me of the aunties. Frank and resourceful, armed with cooking skills to transform any tropical island animal into dinner. Adversity does not dissuade her.
    As the darkness bears in, and the owls start to call, as though mourning, I put down the book. I reach up to switch off the flashlight and lie awake in my clothes. That’s when my body starts to yearn. I am learning that grief can feel a lot like hunger. Aching and dizzying.
    Growing up in an Italian home I wasn’t often hungry.Perhaps Italians know that hunger feels too much like sadness. They know that to love someone, to make them happy, means ensuring they are fed. Alex used to groan