ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: Searching

Book Two, Chapter 162: Pungency

I visit an Indian restaurant, only the second one I’ve ever been in. The first one was in Oxford, England, twelve years ago, with Ernie. I remember the restaurant’s brown and dull yellow interior — Indian spice colors.

This restaurant has a statue of Buddha just inside the entrance, next to the cash register. The dark interior doesn’t feel welcoming to me and I think about leaving, but I’m hungry. I head to the lunch buffet, fill a take-out carton with creamy spinach with ginger, a lentil puree, and a cauliflower/potato/pea mix, then weigh the carton on a digital scale and turn over my eight dollars and thirty cents.

By the time I get home, the carton is stained a bright yellow-orange. Soon a spicy smell fills my tiny kitchen. Indian food is pungent, a heavy presence.

I think of Ernie, his presence. He colored me. It’s indelible. I can’t wipe him away. Why would I want to? He’s part of me now.

If we were on a walk together, I’d say to him: “Tell me what you’re thinking. About anything. About what we’re passing, about me, about our life, about you. What are you thinking?”

I’ve been eighteen months without Ernie.

I feel about six months old.