Radix

She held the phial of spice, that dark pinkish powder in her fingers. Yes, it was running low. Like an hourglass, she thought, with a melancholy smile, noting the way the sun hit the green leaves outside, shining through, and illuminating them.

Her husband had been older than herself; a grim and laconic man. (A crocodile, a snake, a bear.) Yes—he was certainly of bulk—magnitude. And it was he who had torn those ligaments—and given her firsthand knowledge of intimate implosion... An idol to worship... A religion all her own.

The terror she felt on his passing was genuine... A naked and vulnerable being, suspended in the cold of space... He was no longer there to scold her; to form a breathing mass beneath her blanket.

The fruit out of grasp.

The beans stolen.

The tree?

Chopped.

And that was no easy task.

It took doing... And even a bribe... To ascertain that lump of dough, that cake, or gobbet—And, naturally, she felt remorseful—to send that spirit into the hereafter without its, possibly, most valuable asset. But Egyptian she was not—She was simply a woman unwilling to part with a certain earthly treasure.

The silver casket she set on her dresser, the inside lined with velvet, the object of her desire lodged within. When certain friends of her sex visited, she would take it out, let them fondle the dried specimen, and then retrieve it with a jealous laugh.

Its mere presence gave her pleasure, its touch nigh on bliss, ravishment—a hedonic quivering which she found delectable... Let her grace her flesh with it in the evening—glance it here; press, kiss and dimple there... under the dim light of her bedside lamp... Memory conjoined to fantasy.

Like a camel, edging itself down on convenient object... Or the Milesian women with their olisbos... their consolateurs... Yes, others might choose what they would: fruits of the vine, or even rude and filthy roots: a turnip, beet or yam... But to her, love was linked solely to him, and his severing.

Yet time brought with it mildews, which disturbed, undermined the architecture... The stalk splintered—the sacred relic,—the root,—it too a transient thing—could no longer be used with aggressive motion, or lent delectable impetus... But of those shards came the cure, the medicine, so efficacious, which on rare occasion she sampled to others, but largely kept to herself, as she was, a more or less possessive wife, or even widow.

That object of love was ground in a mortar of stone, much like the American Indians might have done to a handful of acorns, and the powder sent forth an aroma, so very heady, so very much that of man. It caused her genuine titillation, to once again experience the perfume of the grim cavalier—to unleash those locked away essences—those vibratory impulses dilating her nostrils, as her hand manipulated the pestle.

The powder was more than just precious—it was her absolute link, to him, the culmination, physical, emotional, that instance of experience, intense and unrestrained... She crimsoned with wonder... Bathed in moisture... Mixed those grains with warm water, a spoonful of sugar... Ambrosia of a solitary woman.

At first she took those doses nightly—living in a near constant swoon of dreamy excitement. Later she held herself back, knowing full well her supply was limited... She restrained herself, moved hastily from place to place, a whirl of nervous spontaneity, activity... And when the release came, the laconic one was there, to listen, and enjoy the dark sighs of breath.

Tender, almost painful... Awakening the other side of the night... That operation... The boiling in her veins.

Yes, she thought, looking at the dwindling phial by the light of the window, I must certainly try and make this last another spring.

Because, she knew full well, that she could not live without him.