The Spices On The Roast

I'm a creative writing major, so writing for me is an expression of who I am. It’s a major part of my soul. Most of my articles have fallen under the creative non-fiction category. They’re based upon my thoughts and opinions and interests. I love writing them. But if I’m going to sit and write for hours (which I do often), fiction is my best outlet. So the following is a snippet of some of my fiction work. As a disclaimer, this is an edited version of a free-write I did for a class, and part of the prompt was to write it as one long run-on sentence. So I’m deeply sorry to all the grammar freaks out there. It is not grammatically correct and, if you know me, you know that hurts my soul. However, after trying to tweak it, I felt that changing it took away the flow and even a bit of the emotion. Since the format is different from anything else I’ve read or written, I didn’t want to change that and lose it’s uniqueness. It’s not quite poetry, not quite prose, but definitely a part of my soul.

“That’s not how you do that,” I tell Dad as he puts the roast into the crockpot, but without seasoning it first, so that it would come out dry instead of tender and juicy, falling apart just as this family is falling apart, as separate and lonely as the spices on the counter, which I toss to him, thinking he will catch them, out of habit, like he used to, but he doesn’t; he just lets them hit the counter and roll, dropping into the sink full of dirty dishes he told me to wash last night, but I forgot about and then he looks at me, questioning what I did that for, and it makes my heart sore that he doesn’t remember our old kitchen games, the way we used to goof off and joke around, the way we used to laugh, and I am reminded that so much of him has been lost now that Mom is gone, now that she’s moved out of our lives with all her boxes, I find she’s taken him too because he’s never here anymore, he’s never listening because he’s too busy missing her, and I hand him the carrots and celery and potatoes and onions I chopped, hoping he’ll forget to miss her sometime soon, that maybe he’ll remember I’m still here, that Grace is still here and that we still love him even though Mom doesn’t because she left for that stupid man with all his fancy suits and all those zeros at the end of his paycheck, but we didn’t leave and we’ve chosen his side, if sides must be taken, his was the only one we could take because he loved her, always loved her, and she got bored with that so she left for something more exciting, something more fulfilling, she said, but he had given her his everything and now he has to cook for us after work so we can do homework and stay away and try to ignore the emptiness in the house, and now I think there are tears hiding behind his eyes as he adds the spices and vegetables and sauces, covering the crockpot so the roast can sit overnight and be ready for Sunday lunch, if anyone decides to get up for Sunday lunch, since none of us go to church anymore, but that’s not important because he did it and he’s providing and for a brief, single moment I can see a tiny flash of hope as he turns to the dishes but doesn’t ask me to help because he seems to have forgotten I’m there or perhaps he wishes I would leave so he can cry in peace, but I don’t leave, I won’t leave, and I take up the towel to dry without being asked because I want him to know I’m still here, even though she’s not, and I’m not leaving him because I do still love him even when he forgets the spices on the roast.