Sorrowful Halva

Wrote this in Russia during comics and tea. In picture see a pitiful reenactment with me and Lee.

Today I bought a piece of peanut halva at the market. We had it with dinner. Tonight conor is upstairs already for some reason, and I went into the fridge and took, as if from some long forgotten corner of the refrigerator of my memory, our old sesame halva, and as I did I imagined myself eating it and sobbing.

“Why are you crying?”

“It’s just so good.”

Bu then I thought – I think now that it was weeping for my memories of yesterday – when we didn’t know today, when we didn’t know the other halva. We only had sesame and were content, but today sesame has become one of two halvas, and in a way, we can never return to it again – not as it was, not as our only – not without knowing what’s outside. And so now sesame halva – the same piece – is both itself and the pain of its memory.

Just as when we leave Vishny Volochok I will miss the flavor of these days – the way it feels to be stuck with nothing to do but sit around the table with a hot pot of tea carving a piece of halva, and drawing together until late. Today our life here comes closer to a sorrowful memory. Just as my memories of my brother change with each added year – each new separation from that first state – one of only one I knew, at home together as children.