ANOSMIA by Alex Gurtis Nothing prepares you for the loss of smell the absence of cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning, the spice of opening presents and offering a smile made of icing and when you pour the London tea and only the warmth of steam tickles your nose, flavor seems so distant, as though each sip was an attempt to drown the Atlantic an attempt to shorten the distance between that looming ancient island and our tiny apartment How pine needles line your inner nose, dried, pricking the cast of cartilage, unable to lead down the dirt path leading to the springs and singing birds It now explains the kale in my sandwich on Saturday and why the sandwich tasted so bitter, so sad, why I couldn’t taste the sautéed mushrooms and garlic and how I can’t wait for us to taste your sautéed mushrooms and garlic again on the porch with our pot of tea.
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