18 Years of God Damn Bullshit: A Memoir

Breakfast

That one word, a concept that haunts me in the hidden place between my head and pillow at night where I lay sleeping

And thinking things that melt into my dreams like butter into pancakes

I remember my mother

Who used to make it just like the box

A perfect picture

A perfect mother

I had loved her, I think

Not because she made me pancakes that went so well with orange juice in the morning

But because I felt it in the tune of her voice

Because it melted into my ears, sopping down straight into my stomach

This gave me that full and optimistic feeling that she and pancakes felt special for

Memories where it was that time when you could find people special because you didn't yet know that no one was

She made me feel that

And so I held onto breakfast for as long as I could before mornings became stale things best left in the past

To let go was to grow

And so you see, I learned the finite quality of things

I was thinking like an adult, and I wasn't done yet