Sunday Morning Blues

Sunday morning, I plod downstairs, barely

awake, then slump into a kitchen chair.

Dad’s specialty, pancakes with blueberries.

He heats the stove and whisks lumpy batter,

then pours some creamy puddles on the pan.

First two, for me and my sleepy sister.

Once bubbles pop, form pocks, and edges tan,

it’s slide, then twist and flip, farewell craters,

doughy dimples now changed to golden brown.

I grab a knife and smear on soft butter

then drizzle syrup on top, let it run down-

from corn - my dad would like maple better,

but it’s mom who shops and she likes Karo.

Funny though that mom’s a choir member,

only early coffee for sopranos,

who need airy notes to reach the rafters.

There’s compromise in cartons of berries

mom buys each week from our local Kroger.

Once they were out of stock. A tragedy!

I suggested some chocolate chips. “Never!”

was dad’s response, an act of sacrilege,

it’s those indigo orbs or disaster.

From their chilly haven inside the fridge

to warm purple paint pods, rich lavender

when burst by curved fork tines making

pancake palettes to stain Corelle platters.

Our tradition, dirty dishes, swirling

patterns of juice in sticky sweet layers.

One week later I’ve packed and moved to school,

back to my Sewanee mountain, sister’s

gone to Berry, two southern campus jewels.

Our parents first year as empty nesters.

Sunday morning dad calls, no blueberries,

no mouths to feed without yawning daughters,

settled for ice cold milk over Wheaties,

one bowl, one mug inside the dishwasher.