Surprise Breakfast

 

One winter morning I get up early
to clean the ash from the grate
and find my daughter, eight, in the kitchen
thumping around pretending she has a peg leg

while also breaking eggs into a bowl—
separating yolks and whites, mixing oil
and milk.  Her hands are smooth,
not from lack of labor but youth. 

She’s making pancakes for me, a surprise
I have accidentally ruined.  “You never
get up early,” she says, measuring
the baking powder, beating the egg whites. 

It’s true.  When I wake, I roll to the side
and pull the covers over my head.
“It was too cold to sleep,” I say.
“I thought I’d get the kitchen warm.”

Aside from the scraping of the small flat shovel
on the iron grate, and the wooden spoon turning
in the bowl, the room is quiet.  I lift the gray ash
and lay it carefully into a bucket to take outside.

“How’d you lose your leg?”  I ask.
“At sea.  I fell overboard in a storm
and a shark attacked me, but I’m fine.”
She spins, a little batter flying from the spoon.

I can hear the popping of the oil in the pan.
“Are you ready?” she asks, thumping to the stove.
Fork in hand, I sit down, hoping that yes,
I am ready, or nearly so, or one day will be.

David Romtvedt, wyomingpublicmedia.org September 13, 2013