OCCUR — JUDITH OSILÉ OHIKUARE
/When did she even occur to you?
Five years ago, at my old roommate’s wedding while making Cincinnati chili. I performed a chiffonade on the corner of my thumb where nail met bed and dripped into the side salad before I could help it. She brought Band-Aids and damp paper towels so the cotton wouldn’t stick. She squeezed to get the blood out; a sharpness rang in my hand and my head—which is where love and pain both occur.
When did you last see her?
Monday night after burning cheap incense a man sold to me at a discount. He liked the tangles and whorls of my hair, he said, and threw in a jug of coconut oil that told me the temperature was above 76 degrees. I had wine too soon before sleeping. A smoky something wrapped me in gauze. Her mouth occurred to me: the thought, then the pressure. I spent Tuesday and last night trying to remember, ash gathering in the ceramic tray on my nightstand.
What’s her name?
I try not to tell people who don’t already know. Gossip is wild and the world is small.
What is her issue?
The last time I assumed, she disappeared for months—hair changed, new number, apartment listed and let. I had to forget her, hard, so that she would come back. That kind of privacy had never occurred to me.
How did you know you were in love?
It felt as much like what I thought it should as it possibly could.
Do you miss her?
The thought had occurred.
Judith Osilé Ohikuare is currently the Operations & Development Director at NY Writers Coalition, a nonprofit organization in Brooklyn that provides creative writing workshops for historically underserved and marginalized groups in New York City. In the past, she freelanced for various publications, including Condé Nast Traveler and Essence; worked on staff at Refinery29, Cosmopolitan, and Inc. magazines; and served as an editorial fellow at The Atlantic.
