I remember you best by the way you held out that orange peel, the sweet aroma contrasting with the grime on your finger nails, the sallow shade of the inner peel matching your skin.
You took your knife that day and chopped the peel in quick strokes until there was a small mound of tiny pieces on the countertop. "It is best to add the peels to the blend before the peel dries." You told me this because the fresh juices will help flavor the tea blend.
"Come." You laid your knife down and told me to follow, the creaks of the steps matching the creaks in your own body. The air was cool and slightly dusty. "I want to show you." When you flicked the lights, the bottles sparkled.
Handwritten labels decorated the glass jars. Poke root tincture. Dandelion wine. Gypsy -cold tea. Motherwort herb. I looked up into your wrinkle-lined eyes and said, "I want to learn." You nodded.
Now, here I stand by your box, not with roses or other flowers, but with orange peels and rosemary branches. I break off a piece of the rosemary and crush it together with a small piece of the orange.
"Goodbye," I say. I walk away from the casket, the rest of the herbs bundled in my arms. I know what to do.
Katherine Olga Huether is a freelance writer and herbalist. She has a BA in English from the University of New Hampshire and is a student at Australian College of Health Sciences. Her work has appeared in Brady Magazine and is scheduled to appear in The Pebble Lake Review. She lives in Germany with her wonderful husband and cat.
