Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
76 · Nov 2022
breakfast
t Nov 2022
i wonder how many families have the same mornings we do.
i imagine my life to be so unique, so personal, so intimate.
i imagine that everyone has moments that feel as special as those of waking up to breakfast made for me by my parents.

the halls greet me with memories of my own past lives.
they welcome me down the stairs of my home.
the smell of coffee, bacon, cinnamon, and flour wafts into my bedroom.

i wake up with the color brown in my mind.
i used to say that brown was the worst color.
my mind couldn’t comprehend how anyone enjoyed it.
but i wake up and it’s all i can picture.  

the shade of trees, dark green accompaniments.
the depth of coffee, flush in comparison to the old, chipped, white elvis presley mug i drink from.
the warmth of our cabinets, built with love by my grandfather for his family.
the oak of our kitchen table, scratches adorned.

each time i look at my table, my heart aches.
i remember the day my father accidentally took a saw to the corner, carving out a corner, the day he placed our pan of sausage down, leaving a mark that has yet to fade, my sister and i’s names carved in after long, dreadful nights of homework.

a deep oak is the color of willie nelson’s stardust.
stardust is a song that always makes me sob.
it’s directly tied to mornings at home, my parents cooking breakfast while i sit on the island in our kitchen, telling them stories of work the night before or what we dreamt about.
my mother always claims that she can’t sing, but i hear her voice in my dreams and it’s safe.

whenever it’s warm enough, we sit outside.
here, the shades of brown are traded for those of orange and yellow.
the bright sun warms us as we sip orange juice and share laughs.
we listen to whatever album my father’s become obsessed with in the past week and the calls of our birds.
we can identify nearly every bird that visits our feeders these days, eager for the next new visitor.

i wonder if i appreciated the last time i sat with my parents on a weekend morning before moving out.
i wonder when the last time will be.

— The End —