Peanut Butter Porridge

 

There are moments when I stop and think about the mornings.

Looking back, that was probably my favourite time of day.

She’d come into the kitchen, eyes tired but brain wired

— excited for what lay ahead.

 

She’d kiss the back of my neck while I prepared our breakfast:

Peanut Butter Porridge

 

She’d slide herself into the chair at the table by the wall.

Our place wasn’t huge — it was cozy, and small.

But we liked it that way, the way we liked to have the

same breakfast, the way we liked to sleep together on one side of the bed.

 

Now the place feels too big, and the bed is a lonely field.

The wind scurries from every direction without obstruction.

 

But every now and then I’m warmed by the memories of

those mornings, by memories of Peanut Butter Porridge,

by playful arguments over who came up with the combination:

“PBP” we’d called it.

 

From time to time I’m wrapped up in the blanket of the past,

only for the present to pull it from me,

like how my mother would wake me on chilly school mornings.

 

‘It’s the little things,’ isn’t that what they say?

The little things that help us brave the demands of the day.

When she left for the last time she packed those little things

like a mess of possessions into her purse.

 

I can’t even remember the last words we spoke to each other.

All that I recall is a disjointed tumult.

 

But the shouting meant something; it meant that we cared.

And now the quietness is a reminder of what was.

She’s long gone: the last bus home, the flight for which I was late.

I cannot catch her, I can never catch her.

 

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