Saturday mornings were once technicolored,
outlined in black on TV screens,
fragranced by Froot Loops and yet-brushed teeth,
accented by the sounds of your broken sleep…
…‘cause it had always been a long night.
But you rose
like ambient sunlight:
mixing batter, water and eggs with optical raindrops that have yet to fall,
and fatigue you always had to hide,
until the table was covered by
You fed open mouths that hadn’t quite learned to savor your work properly
and it took us far too long to say “thank you”:
longer than it took for us to demand privacy,
to close our bedroom doors,
for us to fall in love for the first time,
and to think we had nothing more to learn.
But your arms were always open.
You were always available,
hoping that your love was deep enough to protect us from ourselves
and everyone else who didn’t know how to love us,
always there to tell us more of what we didn’t know,
and less of what you had told us so
many times before-
because you knew that it was History that repeats herself,
So, you were gently straightforward,
trusting that your advice, once given alongside pancakes and saturday morning cartoons,
was still buried somewhere deep in our hearts
waiting to bloom like the “thank you” yet to be spoken.
a token of your past and the pain you had already endured,
the journey you had already taken,
the time you bought for us,
time only your quiet strength could afford.
We let them pour,
wash over us like
high school showers you always said were too long,
let them accumulate like text messages and minutes on a fixed plan,
pile up like the dishes we never wanted to wash before weekend outings.
And one day we awoke with adulthood sprouting at our toes,
the years of our childhood reaped after having been abundantly sown.
each accruing value far greater than anything replaceable.
And we could finally say,
after thousands of technicolored Saturday mornings
and hundreds of bowls of Froot Loops,