Cinnamon

Cinnamon hits my nose. It’s earthy scent bringing to mind holiday sweetness. As I stir the oats, I recall watching Pappy, at 92, make his homemade granola. His kitchen window looked out over Clayoquot Sound. The water a rare calm of sparkling blue on a warm summer day. It was a day in contrast to the rainy morning that Pappy arrived at my father’s. How old was he then? Perhaps 75 to Jesse’s almost 10? Pappy announced that morning that he was going to get lost to find Jesse. My little brother had vanished into the rain the evening before. It poured incessantly all night long making our voices small. Yelling “Jesse! Jesse!” into the darkness that had no end. Throats sore, bodies soaked. Pappy found Jesse. The cougar had dragged his little frame far from the hand-hewn house where he was born. I have over salted this batch of granola. The cinnamon is lost.