I remember mornings at your house,
sunshine pouring over me through the floral drapes,
forcing me to scrunch my to return to darkness.
Then, the sweet smells hit my nose
and my eyes were wide open.
Sizzling, frying, and your humming hit my ears.
I pulled myself out of bed
that I had so carefully been tucked in to,
and I made my way into the kitchen.
There you stood, with such poise,
Moving with sixty-five years of grace
through steam and grease.
You swayed around the stove,
Danced from pot to pan,
armed with a fork in your left hand
and a spatula in your right.
You turned and saw me there, in the doorway,
both of us smiling.
We shared our good mornings
and you poured a tall glass of milk
for me.
I sat, waiting, watching
you spin around the kitchen,
stirring, scrambling, flipping,
with such purpose that the sweat
on your forehead went unnoticed.
You filled my plate with pancakes, eggs, and bacon;
golden brown, scrambled, and crispy,
the way I like it.
You didn’t eat.
Only sipped your coffee and smiled.
Now, here I’m standing,
fumbling, burning and cursing,
Preparing bacon and eggs
over my cheap electric stove,
and I’m barely beginning to understand
the reasons your breakfast tasted so good.