A Taste Of

The Invitation

Jamie’s toothbrush was still by the sink.

Six months, and I couldn’t throw it out. Couldn’t move it. Couldn’t even look at it without that stupid part of my brain whispering maybe. Maybe this week. Maybe today. Maybe he’ll knock, or call, or I’ll wake up and all of this will have been some long, drawn-out fever dream.

But it wasn’t. And he didn’t.

Most days, I barely moved. I worked just enough to pay rent. Ate just enough to not pass out. 

My inbox was full of emails I hadn’t opened—some from friends I’d stopped responding to, and one from Jamie. Unread, still. I couldn’t bring myself to look. I wasn’t afraid of what it said. I was afraid it would feel… final.

The flyer wasn’t there yesterday. I would’ve noticed. It was taped to the corkboard behind the dryers in the basement—between a missing cat and a Spanish-language Bible study. Pale blue paper, smudged in the corners. Thick black lettering:

Radical Grief Processing  Memory. Ritual. Release.
Tuesdays – 8 PM “For those carrying too much.”

It felt like a scam. Or worse, like some cult-y grief yoga thing. But it was the last line that hooked me.
For those carrying too much.

That’s what it felt like. Carrying something I couldn’t put down. Couldn’t bury. Couldn’t name, because Jamie wasn’t dead. He was just… not here. Missing. Vanished into nothing. No note. No witnesses. Nobody.

I used to think that was the best-case scenario. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

I showed up the next Tuesday, 8:03 PM, outside a squat brick building with stained glass windows and a crooked ramp. No sign. Just a printed note on the door:
Please remove shoes. Come as you are.

Through the frosted glass, I could see shadows moving. Hear the low hum of voices. One of them laughed—a strange, breathless thing. I stood there for a while, holding the flyer. The paper had gone soft in my hand.

I didn’t want healing. I wanted Jamie. Or failing that, I wanted something that hurt differently than this.

I buzzed the door. It opened.

First Meeting

The floor creaked under the weight of soft footsteps.

I slipped off my shoes and stepped into the warmth—mismatched lamps, faded Persian rugs, the smell of old wood and cinnamon. Seven chairs in a circle. Only one was empty.

"You're Rowan?" a voice asked—low, measured, unthreatening. A man about my age stepped forward, palms open. He wore a brown sweater over a collarless white shirt. Soft hands. Kind face. Tired eyes.

He didn’t smile. Not exactly. More like he nodded with feeling.

"I’m Eli. We’re just getting started."

He gestured to the circle. Six pairs of eyes turned toward me, some curious, some unreadable. The oldest—a woman in a quilted vest—lifted a clear Tupperware container and gave it a gentle shake.

"Cheryl," she said. "I brought oatmeal raisin tonight. His favorite." She patted the lid, then added, "Aaron hated raisins. But he always ate them. Said it kept the peace."

"Rowan, sit." That was Eli again, already pulling a chair into the circle. "There’s no pressure to speak tonight. Just listen, if that’s what you need."

I sat. The chair gave slightly, like it had held a lot of grief.

"Go on," said Cheryl, nudging the container toward me.

I took a cookie to be polite. It was still warm. Raisins sagged like swollen eyes. I held it until it started sweating in my hand.

"Name’s Denny," said the man beside me, tipping a bag of candy into his mouth. "I bring the sweets. Sugar’s for the soul."

He offered me the bag. I shook my head.

"Suit yourself. The dead don’t diet."

No one laughed. Not even Denny. He chewed, slow, eyes on the floor.

Across from him, a woman in layers of purple and rings on every finger gave me a wide, too-long smile. “I’m Trina. I’m sorry you found us.”

"I’m not," Eli said. “It means you're ready.”

Beside him, a heavyset man in a flannel shirt hadn’t moved or spoken. Arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, gaze fixed somewhere just over my shoulder. I couldn’t tell if he was listening or dissociating.

“That’s Jared,” Cheryl offered, in a hush that suggested she was used to explaining him. “His son’s name was Mason.”

The silence between us settled thick and soft, like insulation. No one asked who Jamie was. No one asked what happened. I was grateful.

Eli placed something small at the center of the circle—a wooden bowl, hand-carved. Inside it: folded scraps of paper.

“Each of us carries something tonight,” he said. “A taste, a memory. You don’t have to speak, Rowan. But if you want to offer something, the bowl is open.”

Cheryl dropped in a sugar packet. “For Aaron’s coffee.”

Denny dropped in a Snickers wrapper.

Trina placed a bead. “His favorite color was orange,” she murmured.

Jared didn’t move.

I held the flyer in my hand. Worn now, the ink smeared from sweat. I folded it once, then again, and placed it in the bowl.

Eli nodded, like that was exactly the right thing to do.

“Thank you,” he said, quiet but firm. “Let’s begin.”

And they did—each one speaking not about death, but about something strange and specific.

Cheryl went first. “Aaron used to hum while he ate,” she said, eyes bright and shining. “Just this little tune, no lyrics. We never figured out what it was. Even when he was chewing, he'd hum. Drove my husband crazy. I used to love it.”

Denny followed, mouth half-full of chocolate. “My mom made this baked ziti with ketchup. Like, actual Heinz. Not sauce. It was disgusting.” He smiled, briefly. “I crave it like crack now. It’s like my stomach’s trying to remember her.”

Trina closed her eyes when she spoke. “He had this coat—faux shearling, way too big on him. But he wore it everywhere. Said it held heat like a secret. I still smell cloves and weed on it, even now. Especially now.”

Jared didn’t speak. But after a while, he pulled something from his pocket—a shoelace, frayed and knotted at one end—and dropped it in the bowl.

No one reacted. Not even Eli.

The cookie was still in my hand. The raisins looked darker now. Almost wet.

Rituals Deepen

I told myself I wouldn’t go back.

But the next Tuesday came and my body made the decision for me. Around seven, I started pacing. Around seven-thirty, I was washing my face and pulling on clean socks. By eight, I was standing outside the building again, staring at the paper on the door like it had changed.

Please remove shoes. Come as you are.

They remembered me. No one made a big deal out of it. Cheryl handed me a muffin this time. Pumpkin. Still warm.

"We like when people come back," she said, pressing it into my hand. "It means you’re hungry."

The chairs were in a different configuration—looser, almost casual. Denny was already seated, tossing red hots into the air and catching them on his tongue. Trina was braiding beads into her own hair. Jared stood against the wall, arms folded. Watching.

Eli entered last. He always did.

"We don’t move on from grief,” he said as he lit a small candle in the center of the circle. “We metabolize it. We absorb what we’ve lost. We keep it. We become it."

No one blinked.

This week, they called it a memory meal. Everyone brought something. A casserole. A sandwich. A bowl of canned peaches. They passed dishes around, murmuring names before each bite.

"Aaron's lasagna."

"Mason’s favorite."

"Just like Dad used to make."

I didn’t bring anything. I didn’t think I would be hungry.

But I was.

Cheryl placed a bowl in front of me—ceramic, chipped around the rim, filled with something that looked like lentils and rice.

I hesitated. She smiled.

"You mentioned it, remember?" she said. “You said he used to make this. With cumin and a little cinnamon.”

I froze. I hadn’t said that. I was sure I hadn’t. I’d thought it—maybe dreamed it—but I never said it out loud.

"He called it 'sad boy stew,’” she added, softly. “That’s what you said. Right?”

I looked at Eli. He was already watching me.

“He came here,” I said. My voice sounded small. "Jamie. He was here.”

Eli didn’t answer right away. Then:

“He was part of us. For a little while.”

I stared down at the bowl. The lentils shimmered slightly in the low light. I could smell the cinnamon now, and something else underneath—something earthy and warm and so painfully familiar it made my chest hurt.

"I shouldn't," I said.

"You already did," Eli said.

Trina reached out and touched my wrist. Her eyes were damp. "He wanted you to taste it. That’s why it’s here.”

My hand moved on its own. Spoon to bowl. Bowl to mouth.

The taste was instant and wrong and right all at once. Sweet and savory, soft and gritty. My throat clenched, and I thought I might gag.

Then I tasted him.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. I tasted Jamie.

His breath in the morning. The warmth of his chest when he pulled me in too close. The way his clothes smelled after the rain.

I dropped the spoon. My hands were shaking.

No one moved.

"I need to go," I said, standing.

"You’re welcome to,” Eli said gently. “But that door never opens the same way twice.”

I didn’t ask what that meant. I didn’t want to know.

I left the dish behind. But I could still taste him on my tongue, all the way home.

The Unspoken Truth

I didn’t go back the next week.

Or the week after.

But the taste didn’t fade.

It followed me—through coffee, toothpaste, cold water. Everything had a faint shadow of cinnamon and cumin and warmth. Like memory lived on the back of my tongue now. Like Jamie had attached himself to my palate.

I started dreaming again. Not the usual foggy dreams—real ones. He was there. Fully formed. Saying my name in that sarcastic way he had. Sitting on the edge of the bed like he’d never left.

Sometimes I’d wake up with the smell of his shampoo in my nose. Sometimes with tears dried on my cheeks.

By the third week, I wasn’t sleeping at all.

So I went back.

They didn’t act surprised to see me.

Denny raised an eyebrow and said, “Could’ve saved you a plate last time. But, y’know. It goes fast.”

I laughed. I don’t know why. It felt like the only thing left to do.

The group was quieter that night. No casserole. No snacks. Just candles. Trina had brought something in a cloth-wrapped bundle. She laid it on the floor and began humming to herself.

Eli nodded for me to sit. "You came back because you understand," he said.

"I don’t," I said.

"You will."

He reached into his bag and pulled out something small—a napkin. Folded four times. He handed it to me like it was sacred.

Inside was a scrap of paper.

Jamie’s handwriting. I knew it instantly. Slanted, looping, a little arrogant.

“Rowan doesn’t believe in closure. But I think he’s wrong.”

My throat closed up. I looked at Eli.

"He was here," I whispered.

Eli nodded once. “For six meetings. He brought peach cobbler. Sang harmony with Trina during circle. He laughed at Denny’s worst jokes. We loved him.”

“What happened?”

“He gave us something to remember him by.”

My hands shook.

"You ate him."

No one spoke. No one denied it.

Denny cleared his throat. "He asked us to. I mean—not all at once. It’s not like a buffet. It's more like..."

Trina touched her chest. “Like communion.”

I stared at them. “You’re insane.”

“You’re grieving,” Eli said. “That’s the most honest thing a person can be.”

I stood up. “You used me.”

“No,” Eli said. “We included you.”

I backed away. Cheryl started crying softly. Jared just watched me, jaw tight.

“You didn’t lose him,” Eli said. “You carry him. You always have. But now, you’re not alone.”

I was shaking. I couldn’t speak.

"You've already taken him in," Eli said, voice soft. “And he’s taken you with him.”

I turned and left before I could hear anything else.

I walked for two hours.

My stomach ached. Not like hunger. Not like sickness. Something in between. Something slow. Deep.

That night, I dreamed Jamie was curled up inside my chest, breathing through my ribs like they were slats in a vent.

The Weight of What Remains

I didn’t go home.

I walked until the city blurred. Until the streets emptied and I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. The night pressed in like a thick coat. Too warm. Too close.

I ended up in the park Jamie and I used to cut through on our way back from the late train. There was a bench we always pretended was “ours.” He used to call it the throne—said it was where the trash foxes held court. He could always make me laugh when I didn’t want to. Especially then.

I sat. Listened to the wind threading through the trees.

It felt like something was watching me. Not a person. Not danger. Just... presence.

When I closed my eyes, I saw him.

Not the photos. Not the memory. Him.
Standing in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea. Barefoot. Sleepy. Alive.

"Are you still mad?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"Then come back to bed," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I opened my eyes. The bench was empty again. There was something wrong with my breathing. Too shallow. Like I was trying to hold something in.

I reached for a memory—any memory of Jamie that didn’t feel like fiction. The way his voice used to crack when he laughed too hard. The scar on his wrist from a curling iron. The way he always sang off-key in the car.

They were there. But duller now. Faint outlines. Static.

But the taste—that was still vivid. The lentils. The cinnamon. The warmth.
It wasn’t nostalgia. It was him. On my tongue. In my throat. In my chest.

It was the most real thing I’d felt in months. And I couldn’t decide if that was horrifying or holy.

I stayed on the bench until the sky turned gray. Until I couldn’t tell if I was sick or just emptied out.

When I finally stood up, my legs were shaking.

I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I wasn’t done yet.

Communion

I didn’t knock this time.

The door was already cracked open, the soft lamplight bleeding out across the concrete like it was waiting for me. The sign was gone.
No more please remove shoes.
No more come as you are.

Just silence.

Inside, they were already seated.

Six chairs in a circle. One left empty.

Cheryl looked up first. Her eyes were red. Not from crying. Just raw, like she hadn’t slept.

Denny gave me a nod—no smirk this time. Just something like understanding.

Trina held her hands in her lap like she was praying.

Jared didn’t look at me at all.

And Eli... Eli stood.

"Rowan," he said, voice low, like a benediction. “You came back.”

I stepped into the circle. The floor creaked under my weight. The same rug. The same candlelight. But it didn’t feel warm anymore. It felt... close. Thick.

Eli moved aside and gestured to the center of the room, where a low table had been set.

Not a dining table.

Something lower.

Padded.

I didn’t ask what it was for. I already knew.

"You told me Jamie came here by choice," I said.

"He did," Eli said. “He wanted to be remembered. Completely. Not just in memory. In body.”

I looked around the room. None of them flinched. Not even Cheryl.

“You said I carry him.”

"You do," Eli said. "And now, you can give that gift to others."

I didn’t feel brave. Or enlightened. I felt... still.

For the first time in months, I wasn’t clawing for answers. I wasn’t fighting to hold on.

I was letting go. Or maybe being held.

I pulled the chain from around my neck—Jamie’s key. The last thing of his I’d never taken off. I set it on the table.

“It’s okay?” I asked. Not to Eli. To the room. To someone who wasn’t there.

Trina nodded first. Cheryl reached for my hand.

Denny just whispered, “Thanks, man,” like I’d passed him the last slice of something we both loved.

I lay down.

The padding was softer than I expected.

Eli knelt beside me, hands folded. “You’re not disappearing, Rowan. You’re staying.”

I felt hands on my ankles. On my wrists.

Then—a prick.

Sharp. Small. Just enough.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Not fear. Not breath.

My body stayed still. Calm. Too calm.

My vision blurred slightly, but I was awake. I was very much awake.

The warmth came next.

First at my side, then spreading across my lower back. Down my thigh. Behind my neck.

It wasn’t spiritual. It was blood. Mine.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.

Eli’s face hovered above mine, kind and endless.

"Thank you for this,” he whispered. “You’ll be part of all of us now.”

The room spun.

The candlelight flickered.

Then everything went warm.

And red.

And gone.