v. o'hara | d7 fin [cb #2/3]

Every day is different. Today, he rises before the sun crests over the horizon, spritzes apple cider vinegar into his hair. His hands groggily reach for the kettle, already hot to the touch. His mother has already left for the day, foraging for mushrooms, harvesting the lotus root she hides next to the stream, beneath the shade of a willow tree. He pours a cup of green tea and looks at his inventory.

Jasmine for confidence, but too much is overbearing. Chamomile will calm the nerves, rose will help him in a pinch. He dabs the oils on his neck and his wrists, then steps through the finest of mists, an air about him.

V. (short for Vincente, the neighbors say. Or was it Van? Valentine? Verill?) meets his prey as the sky turns gold. White teeth smile, but not as wide as the lake. His posture is straight, but not like a board. Chamomile fills the air. Jasmine steadies it in his favor. Before long, he's managed to persuade the merchant to offer a discount on rubbing alcohol and medical gauze "Just this once." "Of course." A promise made to be broken. Promises after all, go where the wind takes them.

It takes him back to the apothecary as school breaks, assisting his mother as she ladles soup into a chipped clay bowl. Goji berries float on top. "For your health," she says as she turns to the customer, a smile wide but not as vast as the stream. He handles the herbs for their ailments, wrapping them neatly in cloth. "For your hardship." Once a single iris rhizome, or the seed of a wisteria, has slipped into the mix of an ungrateful customer - a simple mistake of course.

At night, V. drinks a cup of cinnamon tea and helps his mother to bed before spending hours tossing and turning, mind reeling from finances and recipes, facades and routines. His mother would say that they've worked as they've always have: rising in waves. The speed ebbs and flows. But, she says, she knows that he can smooth out the curve.