Written by Gretchen Filart
When I first tasted masala chai, a friend warned: This might remind you of him. I shrugged as nutty cumin wafted, lid to nostrils – how a kitchen would have smelled had he arrived to make me a bowl of curry. She was right: cinnamon and coriander strong like his brooding Indian eyes. Cardamom bright as the tea he made when we last talked. Saccharine trying hard to mask the infighting between chili and peppercorn: him sugarcoating the bitter end with a snippet of two friends parting from Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. I’ll be honest: I didn’t like the tea. Not even the shopkeeper’s offer of a free second cup could’ve changed my mind. Still, I sipped and sipped. Sunk cost. Soon, its sharp flavors were no longer at war with my tongue. I’d forgotten before I could realize I was on my last drop. Some lost loves are like that. They sting your palate at first until you’ve emptied your distaste of familiar memory. Until you have outlived sorrow. File whatever you spent under learning experience. Until you are strong enough to refuse another cup and say, bahut bahut dhanyavad. aapki wajah se maine bahut kuch sikha hai.* I'm grateful for the experience. But once is enough. I won’t be indulging in a second round. *Hindi for "Thank you so much. I learned a lot because of you."
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Gretchen Filart resides in the Philippines, where she writes poems and creative nonfiction about motherhood, love, grief, nature, and intersectionalities. A finalist in phoebe’s 2023 Spring Poetry Contest, her work also appears in Rappler, Defunkt, Door Is A Jar, Maudlin House, Barely South Review, and elsewhere. Though often lost in thought, you may connect with her via Twitter and Instagram @gretchenfilart, or her website, ourworldinwords.com.