Photo by Sarah Boudreau on Unsplash

Those winter Sundays

warm blankets atop my head

pressing into a crumpled, graying pillow

keeping my body locked and curled

to weather the breezes leaking from the window

rattling, banging, rocking its sides

assuring the presence of a windy day

rising to mother’s repetitive shouts to awaken

before breakfast lays cold and soggy,

but breakfast required no reminder

remembering well the warm kitchen

the whispering steam from fresh brewed tea

its aroma drifting lazily up the stairs

with the sweet smell of warm, buttery toast

piled high like a stack of pancakes

soft sunny eggs, sometimes hard eggs, or eggs

beaten to perfection and flipped

laying round like a pie, top and bottom

Did I ever thank her? My thoughts

think not at first, then not enough

each morning the same, none different

basking in her constancy, eating heartily

only now, the mornings are bare, empty of love

reminding me of the coldness of the floors

in winter upon rising

cold floors, bare feet, odorless, and empty.

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