An Incapability of Attachment

An Incapability of Attachment

It begins with a boy, six years of age, charcoal skinned and ashen.

There was something about him then, the colours of the sky; the textures of hair; the bite of a lemon. All things were wonderful and fascinating.

He was a little explorer. Occasionally he, Nana, and Dad would travel to the park or to the forest to look at the animals.

"Duckies," "Squil," "Gullies," he would proclaim in amazement. Everything he said had a slight lisp and yet he belted with confidence. "I want ice cream," he would say, and it all came out as one word.

Nana would always follow with the quickest ‘no’ possible. His desires were beaten down with a swift tongue. "It’s too early, let’s eat some eggs."

Eggs were a tragedy, like a present wrapped in a vibrant golden lining encasing sludge—the most irksome of things, but they were Nana’s specialty. So sludge he ate—once a day, every day since every day.

Sludge became a past-time. A moment of pure engagement between the crew—Edward, Nana, and him. Edward’s only slightly older. He hated the sludge as well; he’d only eat them with syrup. It was a Monday night feast followed by a showing of The Goonies. Both boys fell asleep on a recliner.

Having awoke in his bed, he sprinted to Nana’s room. What can I say to make her get up, he thought. "She won’t make the pancakes, I’ll just ask for eggs," he grumbled inside.

It was early — 5:47 AM — he tumbled in her room and again belted his demands. "Nana, make me some eggs, the hard kind not the gooey kind," for two minutes incessantly.

It was dismal, unfathomable, the sound of a boy's glass heart reaching the bottom of his stomach. The shatter of his mind is indescribable.

"Who do I play with now?"

"Who’s going to tuck me in?"

"Who’s going to tell me that I’m strong and kind?"

"Where do I look for answers when Dad's at work?"

"Why are you gone?"

"You can make the gooey kind if you want to, I’ll eat them this time I promise."

"Why would you leave me?"

All of these thought bloomed and wilted and exploded all at once. Nothing else could function properly. There was no breath between the both of them for a full minute and by only one of them for every minute after.

The family was tattered and broken. Nothing could replace what once was —the synergy, the camaraderie, the love. It had vanished overnight.

All he could think of was the sludge. The eggs. They were her favourite. They were her testimony and how he had rejected her favourite food countless times.

It began with a boy, six years of age, and mentally fatigued.

There was something about him then, the colours of the sky; the textures of hair; the bite of a lemon. All things paled in comparison to her mahogany skin. He remembers it vividly.

He became a little chef. Occasionally he, Edward, and Dad would make dinner for the family. Deviled eggs and sludge were always on the menu.

I didn’t even want the eggs; however, now I eat eggs once a day, every day since that day.

To be continued..

Thank you so much for reading all the way through. Please follow my journey. It would be much appreciated, and I will be sure to reciprocate as much as possible. Feedback is appreciated and welcomed. I love and will always accept a challenge.

With Love,

Jordan.