In the morning I wake and there is sun
framing the curtains in light and
painting the walls pink
When I wake I'll hear dishes clanging and people walking around,
a house awake
wide awake.
On special days I'll enter the kitchen to the smell of comfort
to the band of trumpets on the stove
snap crackle pop
Sticky rice on my fingers and book in hand

Now when I wake the sun isn't up
The walls aren't pink and the house isn't awake
I hear crickets out my windows
the soft creak of my footsteps down
the hall down the stairs
I enter the kitchen and turn on the light
There's no food wafting comfort no
sticky goodness in a bowl
But there is quiet