Onions
thrown in, only to mix with the wad of garlic sitting atop a sizzling pan just
off center on my fire showing, gas burning stove. In a world within a suburban
house where no one will ever be close enough to smell my morning breath. More
garlic gets added, some onion powder too, for in this world I live, the
survivors are among the few.
The
morning rituals I often take for granted, the life I often dream of leading,
they’re all drowned out at the sound of olive oil begging it’s friends to
release their innermost feelings as they all explode . . . and I am there to
watch it. Finally on the other side of a fallout, finally on the side of safety
where hot oil and even hotter breath can’t dare to touch me. And I’m here to
watch the fights, not as a competitor or even an invested spectator, but simply
as a girl who knows that what’s best in life is simply out of arms reach.
Breakfast
is the way to start the day, to remind us that we’re human and that another day
will come. For we never think that tomorrow is too late—we simply know that
tomorrow will be too late for someone else. One less person at the breakfast
table, one less birthday card to remember to write—one less task at hand. So
starting today, I’m embracing my morning breath, and those who dare come around
with the stench of pure happiness. For tomorrow may bring something new, but I
may very well bring something new to tomorrow.
