I don’t remember the first time I ever had chocolate, but I can imagine that I fell in love with it immediately. My love affair with the sweet has forever been my haunting. Of course, dark chocolate is my first choice, but really, anything goes. Even the kind which has aged enough for the refined sugar to start to seep or sweat itself out, to the point where the chocolate starts to assume a white film. This kind is usually sold in a 25 cent bin and bought by grandmothers for grandchildren favours.
One Christmas, pre horror movie experience, I opened up an aluminum foil wrapped Santa. I was so excited at nine in the morning to be eating this delight; I paid no attention to its crumbling demeanour. I believe I slammed the whole jolly chocolate in my mouth only to discover what rotting chocolate is like, melting in a warm child’s mouth. Though I’ve never tried it myself, I can only imagine that this is what paint tastes like. This would not deter me.
Blissful, miserable, euphoric, dejected, incensed, anguished, festive and in mourning, chocolate has always been there for me.
Valentines, Easter, Christmas, Weddings, Birthdays, Funerals and Divorces and everything in between. Chocolate has never scolded me. Chocolate has never told me I was bad. Chocolate had never told me I was fat or getting there. It never told me that my grades were poor. It never told what friends I should or should not keep. Chocolate never told me I was not attractive enough. Chocolate did not tell me I was worthless. We didn’t have to talk. We could just with each other and together in silence, for almost every single day of my life, we grew together.
Chocolate comforted me.
Chocolate loved me, at a time when I was unlovable.
Too much love will kill you.
Or come close to it.
Gardens In Literature
12 years ago