Blue Lace

I open my brown cabinets

And hear them creak;

I'm trying to keep quiet while my love sleeps.

I pull my blue lace plates out one by one and place them on the counter.

I empty the fridge of our white eggs, red bacon, and white toast.

I pull out the black pan, the large one, and try to silence it

As I lift it gently out of the pantry.

I shift, toss, butter, toast.

As I assemble our breakfast on the blue lace plates,

My love walks out -

Reminding me of a simpler time long ago.

In the morning, bright and early,

I smell bacon wafting.

I hear the sizzle,

the snap, zap, popping.

I open my eyes,

seeing the dull, yellow light

through the curtains.

I stretch. I move. I yawn.

I carefully place my feet

on the warm carpet floor.

The brown and wool

scratchy against my toes.

I peek out the door -

unsure if I should be up yet.

Once I see the coast is clear,

I pad down the hall, quietly.

I steal a glance into the kitchen,

following the piper's trail of crisp bacon smell.

I see her standing, a little stooped.

She is deep in concentration.

Her bright, sparkling white hair

punctuated with sweat and wrinkles.

She is stirring something pensively.

She looks up; her eyes crinkle with pleasure.

"Ahh, look who's up!"

I smile slyly, knowing the jig is up.

I come into the kitchen's door way

to see the bacon in the pan, jumping.

I look to my right and

see blue lace bowls and plates overflowing -

Eggs, bacon, toast, butter, cream, grits.

I take a deep breath of yearning,

"What's for breakfast?"

We smile at each other -

me up at her

and her down at me.

"You hungry, baby?"

"Yes, grandma."

I wipe the deep sleep out of my eyes,

pad over to the yellow dining chairs

- they were made in the 70's

the last time the house was decorated.

Grandma goes back to stoop over the stove

finishing the bacon and eggs.

Her hair is all white tufted clouds;

it hasn't changed in years.

Her hair stayed the same until she passed.

God rest her soul.

My Dad comes in, his salt and pepper hair

just forming. It became white

just before he died-

God rest his soul.

We all sit around the table

ignoring the empty chairs of my grandpa (RIP),

mom and sister. They refuse to come to grandma's.

We pray over the food, my dad leading.

Then, we dig in sampling the crisp, white grits,

Spooning the soft, yellow eggs,

Toasted, brown bread, and deep red bacon.

Now, this is my home, my comfort, my strength.

As I sit and remember,

This now haunted breakfast table

Of people left behind, mainly me,

And those who have gone -

Whether by death or choice -

I struggle to remember what held us together.

Was it family, love, housing, proximity?

It was faith -

Faith to believe in each other,

Faith to overcome the hard ships,

Faith to keep each other grounded,

Faith held together by blue lace, yellow chairs, and white hair.

As I look at my blue lace plates

In my own home with my own family

With our own breakfast sitting on it,

I remember my visits to grandma's -

Her home, her chairs, her kitchen table.

And now my own life is held together

By blue lace, grey cat, and brown hair.

I make red bacon, brown toast, and yellow eggs

For my own family on the blue lace plates.

We pay homage to those gone before and

Toast their depart with tan coffee and orange juice.

Every meal a communion with spirits.