Saturday | 5 October 2024 | Reg No- 06
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Saturday | 5 October 2024 | Epaper
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Flash Fiction 

Rosemary for Remembrance

Published : Saturday, 5 October, 2024 at 12:00 AM  Count : 200
Stephen Duffin
Henry knelt on a frayed carpet beside his elderly mother. For three days she had barely eaten. His patience was fading, a bright ribbon of hope trailing into despair. 

She sat in her dusky-pink velvet armchair, gray hair tangled over wrinkled cheeks. Frowning, she held her pen poised over a crossword, battling with clues. White roses scented the living room, fallen petals scattered around a crystal vase. 

Henry gently pushed the crossword away, offering her spoonfuls of tomato soup. "Just try a sip."

Tight-lipped, she clenched her jaw shut. 

He offered the soup again, pleading, imploring. "Nutrition will make you strong."

She stared out the window; a sparrow yearning to fly away. 

Henry sighed. "What's wrong with the soup?" He took a sip. "It heated up nicely in the microwave."

Her withered fingers pushed the spoon aside, her whispered voice a farewell lullaby. "Can I have something else, please?"

"Like what?"

"Tomato soup."

He stared at her. Specialists had diagnosed vascular dementia. "This is tomato soup."
She tut-tutted. "Fresh soup tasting of ripe tomatoes, not canned junk." She reclaimed her crossword, ignoring him.
Henry poured the tinned soup down the drain. 

After suffering a stroke last month, she had rejected most meals and refused to visit cafes or restaurants. In the hall, three walking sticks gathered dust beside a folding wheelchair. Henry banged his fist on a cupboard door in frustration.

Well-meaning Home Library staff had delivered six cookery books. Dazzling covers flaunted photographs of celebrity chefs. Blonde starlets and crewcut hunks made cooking sound easy, as if any idiot could rustle up Beef Wellington followed by Crêpes Suzette. At least Henry's natural cooking skills had improved: creamy porridge, asparagus quiche, and sizzling chicken jalfrezi filled his repertoire, alongside his mother's favorite: lavender cupcakes. 

Where else might he find inspiration?

He recalled his mother's old recipe book. Live-in carers had tidied it away after her bad fall two years ago. All her culinary equipment lay somewhere in the kitchen.  

Henry rummaged through cupboards in the oak dresser, his hands sliding over cold metal tins of coffee, sticky jars of marmalade, chipped blue willow china. Boxes of co-codamol sat on leaflets of how to fight arthritis and diabetes.

Finally, he found a battered old tome. His fingers traced the black leather cover smelling of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. Inside, foxed pages rustled like fallen leaves, dog-eared corners curling at crumpled edges. Hand-written notes in scrolling black ink embellished the printed recipes. Thirty years ago, his mother had used the book to bake him fabulous birthday cakes: Norman castles of moist chocolate sponge smothered in vanilla frosting. Sweet strawberry battlements had melted under his tongue.

Henry skimmed recipes including poached eggs, cottage pie, and plum pudding. On the last page, he found one for tomato soup. Scribbled notes filled the sides: white onion nicer than red onion; crisp fresh celery best (discard if too limp); tomato purée squeezed in makes the soup thicker, richer, tastier. Herbs: basil had been ruthlessly crossed out. Marjoram is sweeter. Beside it, he found a sprig of dried rosemary as brittle as fish bones. Written underneath: Rosemary for Remembrance.

For breakfast the next morning his mother only accepted a cup of tea, so at lunchtime Henry prepared the soup, slavishly following every detailed instruction. In with the sweated onions and fried celery he dropped a knob of butter before adding crushed garlic with garden-fresh thyme. Herbal aromas scented the kitchen as if magically transported to a bright sunny day in Provence. He licked his lips, his mouth watering. He heated the soup while adding peeled, chopped fresh tomatoes, blending it all silky smooth. On top, he sprinkled fresh marjoram leaves before presenting it to his mother. "Voila!"
Her eyes crinkled into a smile. "It smells wonderful!"

To his delight, she accepted each spoonful, swallowing every last drop. "Thank you," she said, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

"That was delicious!" 

Grinning in triumph, he returned the empty bowl to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves to wash dirty pots and pans. Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic" came crooning out of the radio, flowing over glass jars of paprika, a jug of olive oil, and pots of heather honey. Henry allowed himself a celebratory waltz beside the fridge and cooker, a culinary maestro transformed into Fred Astaire. 

As always, his joy was short-lived; financial worries crawled like poisonous spiders into his mind. His mother had made a Will and a Funeral Plan, but only as a formality. He expected no legacy. What do carers do when no longer required? Odd jobs and voluntary work garnished his short CV, but he had no savings, no investments, no qualifications. Maybe he could train as a chef? 

Twenty minutes later, all chores done, Henry waltzed back into the lounge. His mother looked at peace, gazing at floral curtains. He nudged her gently. "Would you like that soup again tomorrow?"

She never moved.

He paused for a second, uncertain. Quietly kneeling beside her chair, he checked her breath and pulse. He waited a few moments until he was sure. 

She would need no more soup, do no more crosswords. 

Henry closed his mother's eyes, whispering a prayer to send her on her way. "Rest in peace."

For months he had expected this, but it still came as a shock. He blinked back tears, raw emotions choking his mind, swirling into a dark kaleidoscope of grief and sorrow.

As he sat alone, a tender spirit of unconditional love warmed his heart, overflowing with patience and kindness. Not all legacies glister with gold. Gratitude itself was a blessing. Henry slipped his mother's recipe book into his backpack.
A whiff of rosemary lingered in the air, and then was gone.

Courtesy: Flash Fiction Magazine


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