her husband loved chocolate. she was always finding sweets in his jacket pocket. it was never a secret but always a surprise. more than the chocolate itself, her husband loved the smile on his granddaughter’s face as he revealed the shiny gold-wrapped chocolate from his pocket. and now, nowhere near that smile, she found two gold chocolates in his jacket pocket. her husband hated it when she cried but he wasn’t around to shame her into stopping. all his belongings still scattered around the apartment but somehow these gold chocolates were all that was left of him. everything else was a reminder. this was a piece of him. she wept silently, standing by the jacket, head resting gentle on the hanging shoulder. gentle enough that the hanger held firm under the weight of her crown. gentle enough that it looked as though the jacket was a dear friend consoling. one wouldn’t have been shocked to witness the jacket’s arm reach up to rub her back. dust had already begun to settle on his compass his ruler his maps his books his papers. strewn in their neat chaos with a finished finality. never to record the rocks again. but the gold nuggets looked fresh, preserved in the pocket, unaware that the last hands to grasp them were now buried in the dirt. she couldn’t eat them herself. her false teeth would never be forgiving to a hard crunch. but chocolate doesn’t last forever. she could stand there and cry for years but eventually she and the chocolate would dry up. rolling the golden spheres in her hand, she remembered the first time they met, how she’d told her father that she pitied whoever ended up marrying that man. raising the gold chocolates to her lips, she deposited them into her mouth as casually as a letter into the postbox. she tongued the gold wrapper briefly before lifting her head back and forcing a swallow.

Marina Manoukian reads, writes, and makes collage art. Marina likes eggs. You can find more of Marina’s words and images at marinamanoukian.com and at @crimeiscommon (on most social media sites).