cinnamonMature

The smell of cinnamon never failed to remind her; even from a great distance, even just the word.  It baffled her how easily a single word could encapsulate all of her memories at once - how it could fit the pattern of his fingerprint between the syllables, layer the tones of his voice in the aroma, dig up her long-buried feelings with an unexpected burst of flavor.  She avoided cinnamon so stringently that every one of her friends and family believed she'd developed a late on-set fatal allergy.  She'd omitted it from every recipe in her books, whited-out in messy swipes.

At first it had seemed like a straight-forward plan.  Erase it completely.  For a couple years it was; she didn't even miss it that much, really.  Apple pie was still delicious, her autumnal pumpkin latte was hardly different at all.  For a while, cinnamon stayed out of her life completely.

Until, without warning or explanation, it began cropping up everywhere.  Suddenly, the white-out was fading away.

The End

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