Ground Roasted Cumin

a short story

Photo by Umesh Soni on Unsplash

My mother was always slapping my hands when they encroached on her territory, mainly in the kitchen, and then again in her herb garden. Memories of my hands cupping the rich humus of soil in her garden and disturbing seed when I first learned to walk.

“Janek,” she’d cry out, a bemoaning cry, part of warning, part of woe when, err, she encountered me and my curiosity. I took to…