Shades of time

One

The cake should have been a warning.

My ever since my Grandpapa Albert died there is only one other that can make my favorite cake. They say diamonds are a girl's best friend but really: its cake. He would tell me stories, call me a little diva and remind me that no matter what family would be there. This notation is especially true when the world tries to come crashing down. Carrot cake would be made on those days.

Grandpapa taught my dad the recipe when he was younger. It was one of those traditional things since coming from the war. For some reason, only those two would be able to make it just right, and then one day the two had become one. I remember everything so clearly, it was an autumn day where the tips of the leaves were slowly turning into a reddish-brown. Two rings before the telephone was picked up, four beats of my heart before papa's pause. One devastated look that took over his face. Silent walker was my father after he got the call. The two of them were thick as thieves. His body was never recovered and neither was the joy in my father's eyes.

So I would have to say my father makes the best on this side of the east coast.

The key to making carrot cake is the number of real carrots you put in: seven to be exact. The carrots are handpicked, extremely juice and made into flakes --Yes you heard me correctly flakes. They are the brightest orange you could ever imagine and are only picked during the height of the season. Needless to say, I am extremely particular and spoiled when it comes to cake. I truly believe that is the best way to break news, good or bad. A new house, a loved one's death, thoughts of separation, etc. Later I would be grateful for the warning.

Arie Gravito is the man sitting across from me, bearing carrot cake. Even with him sitting down at 6'2 you could notice his broad shoulders were firm. His sun-kissed hair is cropped short and piercing eyes are telling nothing and everything. We have known each other so well it seems like a lifetime. Yet at this moment his thoughts seem to escape me.

'What could it be?' are the current thoughts in my head. We had not spoken since sitting down. With me the first to arrive since getting the oh-so ominous text:

We need to talk

Please universe, explain the notion that sending such a text at 20:03:52 would ever be such a good idea. Texting as such gives off such a foreboding sense of events ruining the rest of my evening. I was making my vanilla chai tea about to settle watching a cooking show when I felt the change coming down. With him being a gentleman that matter could only be said face to face. Therefore making plans had to be within days in advance and always before 21:00. This being the only acceptable time to converse, anything after was considered rude.

Peeking through my bangs quickly glancing at his face before continuing my staring contest with this piece of art that is cake. He is waiting for me to patiently grab my thoughts together before speaking. When he noticed the silence progressing into an awkward stretch, he pulled up his shoulders as if getting ready for an impacting blow and spoke.

Thoughts buzzing around in my head, with junior year coming up adding to the flames. The influx of college searching that was going to make or break your journey afterward would start. My college of choice is still undecided my vivid nightmares making sleep invasive. The way a summer ends tends to mark a change in people. Indications what this news could range with him, the good, the bad, the great, the ugly. I could be just blowing things out of proportion but the mind is a powerful, beautifully distraught entity that runs a marathon.

"How was your day?" Simple questions were the second warning. Arie was not in any of the least a man of small talk. He was the silent type, an artist. A picture tells a thousand words was his motto to live by. With that, his art would speak for the words that were hard to convey. With my clear aversion to of starting the conversation going on the offense was his only choice.