Biscuits & Lavender Honey

Growing up in the rural city of Mount Airy, North Carolina, I never found myself a part of the inner circle that is my family and “country life”. My father, Raymond Smith Jr., whom I share a name with, is a butcher, and so was his father and so forth. I come from a long line of butchers that “settled” on this land in 1709; settled is a short word for my family was captured from West Africa and sold to some random Englishman and plopped onto what was then Tutelo territory. In 1865 when slavery ended my great-great grandfather became a sharecropper eventually inheriting it from the settler colonialist once he died.

Anyhow, my 18th birthday is approaching, and most teenagers mark this day a joyous occasion. You are finally an adult, college and freedom from the shackles of your parents control. A mouthwatering illusion to the young and impressionable. My 18th birthday however, tastes more like a stale pork rind you found between the cushions of your couch. Smith family tradition states the eldest child must stay behind and learn the family business so that they can one day take over. The rest of the children, if any, do as they please within the limits of the economic status of the house. No one dares question this tradition for it would bring shame to the ancestors who fought so hard to achieve that little slice of American pie. I pass by our altar everyday, and at times I talk to those who came before me and I always felt a rush of energy once our talks were over, like they had just fed my soul.

After I finish journaling, I hurry downstairs for breakfast before my sister Mimi attempts to steal my “special” biscuit with lavender infused honey. Mimi always likes to argue that all biscuits are the same going down, all due fairness, she is correct. However, homemade biscuits ain’t one size fits all and I am looking for a healthy fluffy to flaky ratio. 1:2, if you’re curious.

Usually I keep my habits to myself so as to not disturb the natural flow of the house, but today is my day, which I govern to myself with permissions to indulge.

It is not as if I have not been aware of this day since the time I was seven, preparing to see my new butcher’s gear, whilst equally preparing my rebuttal speech that I do not want to be a butcher. Ordinarily in a textbook story such as mine, I would rebut with a different career path. Some off the wall shit like a photographer or a writer and live the “starving artist” life. But, truth be told I have no idea where I want to go or who I want to be.

Each step closer to the kitchen fills my stomach with knots, squeezing me tighter than my silky at night. I greet my mother with a kiss and a warm hug. She always smells like cocoa butter and flax seeds from the gel she puts in her hair. My father looks like the Tarheels just made the finals in the March Madness tournament. I know that happy look is for me being able to go work with him.

I finish up my third biscuit, thank my momma for cooking and fix myself to begin washing the dishes when a sea of anxiety sets upon my spirit. My father has never been the outwardly vocal type when it came to his less than palatable emotions. Yet I knew something was up when we locked eyes; his gaze could rupture a volcano. I unlock myself from his grip and out of the corner of my eye I notice something sliding on our kitchen table. The wave turns into a tsunami when I realize it is my father sliding my passport to the middle of the table. The piece de resistance next to the red velvet cake with two candles atop reading eighteen. I have been racing to the mailbox every morning since I got it to avoid this exact moment in time and space.

“Pops, I can explain!” I cried out.

“Explain what?!” He said.

I could see his lips moving, but no sound was coming out.

Suddenly, everything goes dark.

I awaken to the smell of sea salt. Feeling dazed I attempt to sit up and see my father standing by the ocean with what appears to be a barn owl perched on his arm.

“Where are we?” “Why do you have an owl on your arm?” “Did I die?” “Did WE die?!”

I had so many questions on the forefront of my mind and strangely enough the pattern of my thoughts matched the panic of the ocean. Finally my father answered.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

Confusion becomes me. “That’s all you got to say?”

I positioned myself eye to eye with my father awaiting his reply. Then as if I thought this phenomenon could not get any stranger I heard the barn owl speak while my father stood mute.

“Relax.” The barn owl uttered.

I inhale for four seconds and exhale for seven. The scent of the ocean hugs me gently and when I open my eyes to a cotton candy sunset that brings tears to my eyes.

"This is only a glimpse of your life if you choose to continue on this path. I interrupted you before it was too late. You would have caved in and worked at the butchery."

"It's too much pressure. No one in my family has done this before. What if I fail?"

The owl flies away without reassuring my life's path. I sat for what felt like eons pondering whether or not I should cave in or just go, until I realized reassurance does not exist. I will never know if I made the right decision because during my travels I might be put in precarious situations and regret may arise. I may find myself in a place I never want to leave. Infinity is what is being gifted to me. I always felt odd for not having a role in society, but I am not sure I want just one.

My memory finds me again and I register that I passed out before entering this dimension. The wind blows, I follow suit and inhale for four seconds then exhale for seven seconds. During my meditative state my nose draws me towards a familiar sensation. No longer the smell of the ocean; the smell reveals to me my mother's homemade biscuits adorned with lavender infused honey. The aroma grows stronger and swirls around me like a typhoon.

All goes dark once again.

I awaken to my father holding me in his arms with tears in his eyes.