Sitting on the kitchen floor at 2:37AM with my overripe bananas

So here we are again, wedged

In between our problems and the refrigerator.

Like that crowded bowl of forgotten fruit:

Ever-ripening, bruised, quietly edging towards disposal. Blurry-eyes

Nervously read the family recipe, knowing I don’t have the ingredients.

Can you hear Mama calling on the phone?

Eventually, I’ll pick up. I’ll break the quiet with a lie and say I’m making banana bread.