Fennel, which is the spice for Wednesdays, the day of averages, of middle-aged people. . . . Fennel . . . smelling of changes to come.

I tried to hold on to this compassion, sensing its preciousness, but even as I reached to grasp it, it dissipated into wisps. No revelation can endure unless it is bolstered by a calm pure mind- and I'm afraid I didn't possess that.

Fenugreek, Tuesday's spice, when the air is green like mosses after rain.

Monday is the day of silence, day of the whole white mung bean, which is sacred to the moon.

I walk out of the room, lurching under the weight of the lesson I've learned less than one hour into wifehood: How quickly the sweetest love turns rancid when it isn't returned. When the one you love loves someone else.

Often, others see you, as you see yourself

But maybe as I get older, I begin to see beauty where I least expected it before.