È̩fó Rírò

Something about getting older makes me wonder what about my è̩fó rírò recipe will have changed in 50 years? 
What vegetables would be added or removed yearly? 
How many people will have tasted this recipe? 
What about now will I miss the most? Where will I be? 
How much more would I have evolved? Will I still love this version of me?
How much would my heart have expanded, loving him, loving them, loving people? 
How much love and loss will I have experienced?

With whom will I share my bed? 
In how many new lands would we have made love? 
On how many vacations will we have navigated the stunning ravine between pleasure and pain, uniting our bodies in our own little universe?
Under how many sunsets would his arms have found my breast, while his lips locked with mine?
Would we still “argue” about speed limits when we go on road trips?
Would I have finally tried out adding curry to è̩fó?
How many more recipes will I have written down?

Will we still lay on the couch, me cradling him, loving the weight of his body on mine?
Will we have had children? 
Will our parents be around to experience all of it?
How many tales of our love will they have heard, from us, the grandparents?
Would they have seen it, how we banter endlessly and enjoy each other’s bodies?
Will our love spill over, flowing into their lives like the rivers that fill the ocean?
Will they love my è̩fó rírò?
Will I have tried using smoked turkey?

Will I die first? Or will he?
How many storms will we have weathered together?
Will we have stood and fought together, side by side, or did the storms just win unopposed?
Will I feel so lost without him?
Will the children live long enough to have children too? Will they stay around? 
Will they move over seas and oceans like their parents?
Will they want my è̩fó rírò at Christmas or Easter?
Will they be vegetarian? Will we all be vegetarian?

Will I be a loving and passionate old woman?
Will our lives look anything like the elaborate imaginations we had?
Will we have written those books, shared the gift of our imagination with the world?
Will he still tickle my belly? And the inside jokes, will they have multiplied by a factor of 100? 100,000?
Will we have stayed through sickness and health? 
Will I always be able to tell atarodo from Cameroon pepper? 
What about my è̩fó rírò recipe will have changed in 50 years?

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