Looking at this plate of pancakes
a lonely meal for one
I can't help but think of Saturday mornings
when I was seven and my family
would rise after the sun
and mix and match and make a mess
of the lumpy pancake batter.
And we would crumble in eggshells
sometimes on accident, sometimes not
but either way the crunchy pancakes
tasted like sunlight through the window
golden and slightly sweet.
I scowl at the solitary cup of coffee
next to the plate.
It brings back memories of when I was ten.
My dad and I would sit at the table
me with my bowl of cereal,
him with his cup of coffee.
We would talk about how much fun we were
going to have and how great it was going to be.
We each had a grin so big and wide on our faces.
About an hour later the news comes.
"Hey bud. I don't think I'm going to be up for it today,"
he says. "Maybe next week?"
It was fake.
The smile, the laughs, the promises.
That was the first straw of many.
The first cut.
The first bruise.
The slice of pizza mocks me
with limp vegetables and unappetizing cheese.
I know I should warm it up or something
but I just can't make myself care.
I'm used to cold pizza, anyway.
I ate it when I was naive and thirteen
slowly realizing that my family wasn't perfect.
We were more like
a burnt crust covered by a thin layer of sauce
that silently slides off the piece of pizza.
Just like the toppings,
my family was slipping too.