Cinnamon

He was given a name to reflect his mother’s passions.

He had an infectious laugh. Clothes that smelled of the warm spices his mother would use when she baked, and eyes that shone like gems with a boyish charm that was difficult to dislike. He was a man of cold hands and a heart that burned with life, his mother comparing him to the very flames that nursed her cooking, with a laugh she would say to him that he ‘burned without burning’. A spiteless fire.

He was determined not to be his father. He didn’t understand, nor could he truly ever, what his father had hidden under layers of strange ramblings and distant stares. But Cinnamon saw what it did to his mother, and saw how that distance could break a heart where words did not need to be spoken. Cinnamon would not be like that. And in the times where his father would soften, would chatter and giggle and roll his eyes and tell fantastical stories, Cinnamon would recoil, unable to pull apart the two personalities offered to him, and the fire would start to seep into the lingering resentment that he kept tucked away.

Cinnamon had often accompanied his mother, running around as she delivered letters, eyes wide and grimacing as he shifted her movements to avoid the unseen posts that had escaped her vision, dancing circles around her as he clung to his hat, excited.

His mother had wished she could tug him back, as if he were a child again. Cinnamon’s attention was easily diverted, and he laughed, playing with the local children, stealing playful glances at the young women, who giggled and shooed him off as he laughed, his mother chiding him on her way to the next home.

But it was, of course, home, in which he bestowed his passions upon the privacy of his room. Brushes dipped into paint, spreading colour upon the canvas and marvelling at the intricacy of his designs. Paint was a luxury he knew they could not afford. And so, he smiled, mixing leftover spices with water, watching as the powders turned the liquid to the faintest hues, escaping the world for a better one living inside of his fingertips, only fading back into reality upon hearing the sweet calls of his mother urging him to come and eat.

“Take your hat off at the table, Cinnamon.” She frowned, though without malice. Cinnamon had blinked curiously, pulling at the rim of his hat before tugging it off, revealing a mess of fluffy, unkempt hair.

“What’ve we got? Whatever it is, smells like I’ll be happy.” He laughed, nose wrinkling and lips curling. He did not wait for a response, humming out a melody as his hands tapped the rickety, wooden table.

“Goodness, will you sit still? Honestly, you’ll be in bed before you can even eat!” She laughed. “You’re just like your father, sometimes. All chattering and dancing.”

Cinnamon had stilled, gaze downcast as he took in the detail of the old wooden tabletop. He had uttered a laugh, but it wasn’t the same, as she placed dinner in front of him and ruffled soft hair.

“Thanks. Love you.” Cinnamon smiled.

“I love you too, dear. Eat up!” She cooed, insisting, wasting no time in starting on her own plate.

He did not want to confront the idea that he could ever be as similar to his father as he was.