My hand gently cradles a chocolate habanero, I smile remembering the time you thought the name meant it was sweet. Your face flushed as your thoughtful chews turned into coughing fits. You asked for water, but I handed you a glass of milk.
“The casein in the milk calms the spice” I explain when you give me a sceptical look.
You grabbed the glass and downed it in one move. “More” you coughed.
I miss you.
It was still summer when we dug shallow pits into the earth and planted flaky pale-yellow seeds. You dropped a handful and cursed so loud a flock of birds flew from the avocado tree. Now the seeds have transformed into green leafy plants that carry reddish-brown pods ripened by absorbing the sun. I pluck the pepper in my hand and move to collect more. The waving leaves whisper against my legs as I walk through our small garden.
We made this possible.
