My seven year old daughter
wants to make me
brunch for Mother’s Day.
I would feel hollow
without honoring the meal.
I let her.
She cooks me toast, one slice,
and joins me at the table. Innocently,
I tell her she still has
her mother’s eyes. I smile—
why?
The toast leaps out and impacts the floor,
startling her. I pretend
to jump in my seat, which
comforts her;
but in truth, she’s not convinced.
I want the chance to jump
again, but can’t,
because I don’t usually run the errands,
and now we’re out of bread.
allmostrelevant 