I miss waking up to the smell of your delicious pancakes.
Sweetly covered in maple syrup.
And the sweetest smile you served with it.

Now all I can wake up to
is to the smell of burnt breakfast.
Sugarcoated with cooked up lies.
That I keep feeding myself to stay alive.

You were the epitome of cliche jokes and the feeling of a warm fire after being in the cold.
You were the glue to keep the 1000 piece puzzle together.
You were forgiveness in hardships
You were hammer and nails on the tool belt that a worker wore with pride each early morning and every sweltering day and all the long nights
You were dancing to commercial jingles
You were waking up excited Christmas morning to pancakes
You were trust
You were more than 2 family gatherings on holidays and having time stretched thin between the different 5 ones we had to go and choosing which one we wanted to attend
You were a secret holder
You were making weekends an hour long trip every weekend
You were holding hands with my mom while you drove and talked and laughed so
You were taking the role of "dad" when the one who fathered three kids didn't want to be
You were love in its best form
Until you weren't

For a week straight, I avoided going to the supermarket, even when my stomach grumbled and the fridge stayed empty and lonely. And instead, I looked through my binoculars from the tree house my dad had built with a few planks of wood, nails, and a rusty hammer. A place he’d built before I was put into my mother’s arms and put into a bright blue cradle. Blue as the shirt Abigail was wearing, the same day the cops busted her for giving head to my best friend Isaac in my Toyota Camry. Right in the middle of the parking lot of the supermarket, as I bought pancake batter and cage-free eggs for breakfast.

And Abigail never ate that meal after she spent a week wasting away in a cell block, reading JD Salinger stories over and over, as though his words could heal her marks and bruises.

Today, I made pancakes and eggs for breakfast.  I waited for the TV to load a Netflix show, hoping Abigail had learned from her mistakes. She passed me the salt and pepper shakers, as I lit a cigarette, sat in a chair, and smoldered.

Abigail put her face in her hands, cried for a bit, even reached for the ***** bottle.

We went to the supermarket later, walked down one aisle, and picked up meat and potatoes. As we headed for the self-checkout line, I passed the breakfast section and saw the pancake batter and the eggs. Abigail crumbled to the floor, said, “I’m so sorry.”

After that, we never touched breakfast.

two o'clock in the morning
your eyes glow against the moon
who would have know that i
would fall so hard, so soon?

three o'clock in the morning
whiskey and a cigarette
there stood a sweet young couple
who looked a bit upset

four o'clock in the morning
the music is winding down
everyone is sleeping
not a soul makes a sound

five o'clock in the morning
she refuses to tell him goodbye
as soon as that car leaves the lot
she feels like she is going to die

six o'clock in the morning
the smell of coffee is bold
she's making banana pancakes
for two, though alone and cold

seven o'clock in the morning
she saw him in her dreams that night
it crippled her upon waking
she almost forgot his beautiful eyes

eight o'clock in the morning
he needed to hear her voice
the only thing that could calm him
so he was left with little choice

nine o'clock in the morning
she watched the sunrise and cried
he had absolutely no idea
her denial of love was a lie

You sit at the table with your blue and yellow crayons
Quietly coloring tigers and waving the fingers of your left hand.

You proudly show your decorated notebook; the one you alone created.
Safety plans, behavior charts, conflict resolution, and coping.

You're asked if you understand rules and regulation,
The look on your face as you color a second tiger purple, tells me different.

Searches coming and searches going looking for sharps.
Supervision daily, hourly, minute by minute
How then, can this be self-harm?

You sit in the van with your ninja turtles backpack
Quietly whispering, repeating, comforting words.

You proudly show your decorated notebook; the one you alone created.
Tigers, elephants, horses, cars, houses, and nostalgia faces.

You're asked if you understand stability and foster families,
The look on your face as you chew on your shirt, tells me different.

Days gone and months in this new place
You are doing so well, so great
Bedroom upstairs in the corner
All your favorite things have their space
Tell me one thing gained here?

Saturday Morning
Pancakes
Sprinkles, and
Maple Syrup.

© Jo Tomso

One day our spines’ll tesselate under sage soft duvets as storms sweep across us and no one will cry;
not one noise shall slip from tongues
‘cos strength comes from keeping quiet
or carrying on.

You’re a now realised kindness that doesn’t know what breath is
or how the north circular works in festive rush hours home,
but I’ll kiss the answers upon your tender carbon tapered chest and hope the toner never runs low
(your dad would’ve handcrafted every thing he knew in semaphore if he’d have pulled through,
but you’ll learn in time, too, that time does not ruin fewer experiences than being).

I lean in. Whisper this (above) across your one body,
three eighths the size of a coffee table hardback book:
the result of patience pined for
that I mimed along to motherhood the best I could for nine months
and now, here, I lift the hood and work out what to do next       in this rush to settle down and sit,
sip until you snooze off into silence.
Here I carry you and do not notice the weight,
stare at the gape of you, my newly framed little one held in the palm of my hand,
squat full four pinter named after someone we knew.
You landed lunar surface side up,
smoothed new to the toes
and I wonder how I’ll meet you
I wonder how this goes.

I imagine myself waking up in the morning, and walking into the kitchen to find you.
We are both in our underwear and a baggy, oversized t-shirt with messy hair, and you say to me, “Hey, I made you rainbow pancakes for breakfast.”
And maybe then I would enjoy mornings.

My Mother was sad –
When I had walked, talked
And left the girl there,
All alone in her bed,
The bed I’d fled
And cushion not my own
As I’m now laying,
Sheets up to chin
And lying as well, at home,
My mother’s home,
But the home she said,
I’d "always have.”

     I roll over.

My bed, my very own,
Is hours away and if I were,
“There,”
I’d still hear her tears,
My mother’s
And those of the “others” I’d left
Behind, left before, abandoned
In that very bed that’s now
And hers, only hers,
Far from ours or ever will be;
An “Eden,” becoming exile;
Truth in prior trespass – an end.

     I roll over.

And as selfish as all this may sound,
I saunter to the smell pancakes,
Maple syrup,
And fresh coffee in sobbing’s stead;
Up until the grief of a mother –
Tears atop tabletops,
A stream quite displaced from mad,
Where my visits, become few, far
And even further,
Most importantly – Alone;
For her, for me and it pains her even more,
The solitude of, “I.”

     I roll over.

Alas, the clock’s ticking not only sorrow,
But something else awry. Awry or away,
Where mom’s finally tackled slumber again,
Snores intermitted renewed grin
Under dreamt up birthday cakes,
Sunlit orange juice and dandelions; Whisps
Breeding the only smile, her son’s come home.
So with light whimper, fried eggs come ‘morrow
And a small dog at her feet,
She’s in a moment, she’s satisfied.
The one left behind, probably not though,
As she’s atop a pool of tears and drapery boiled
Drink come reckless.

     I roll over.

And like her, I’m still awake,
Dreams taunt, but sheep can’t sleep,
Because I’m –
A little ashamed, a tad content,
Still tired though and as odd as this may
Sound, or not,
Hungry for breakfast
As pancakes overcome pillow-muffled
Cries
And burnt bacon mirrors souls and a
Sacred long gone;
Solace in only one of the two being happy,
But one more than the two that weren’t before.

     I roll over and will again and again
    And again.