Jenny: While reflecting on my last few days of summer before leaving for college, I remembered seeing this anxious, sorrowful look on my mother's face. I realized that while we anticipated the future, we were both trying to hold on to something, wondering whether breakfasts and lychees and our relationship would ever be the same.
i awaken to the promise of eggs
that burst open and bleed joy
into the pores
of toast, thick and inviting,
spilling
over the edges like a sunrise.
my mother dries her hands on a yellow towel
and brings out a basket of lychee,
pushing a thumbnail into rough, leathery skin,
and moon meets mesa
as she peels back
from the flesh a membrane
pink and thin
as an eyelid from sleep.
she tells me i need to be careful out there,
a morning routine,
rattles off things i need to look out for
and i know every word
before she says it but i listen
as i fill my mouth with the taste of home
because every ten a.m. breakfast is a reminder
that our lychees are numbered,
that yolk leaks out of egg white
too fast to hold onto,
that no smudge of daylight
peeks over the crust of horizon
without intending to stay,
and no sunrise
is accidental.
- j.h.
Cover photo by Neha Deshmukh on Unsplash