The meal that reminds me most of my momma is breakfast. Home made flapjacks with real maple syrup. She always made me pancakes. No matter how late she was running she would always stop and offer me pancakes.

And now they make me think of home. A place that existed somewhere near her heart. No building, no place, no singular locale, can hold the feeling of home with her.

So, I eat pancakes when I want to feel her near. Home made pancakes with too many blueberries globbed in one spot. And this morning's were just right. Nothing fancy, not photographically correct, but served on a quiet place with a little bunch of grapes.

With each bite I tell my momma about you, about how you make me feel. And I feel my momma with me... But, now my plate is empty and tears have started to fall. Thank you for listening momma. I miss you.

I think it must have been cold. I remember huddling up close inside myself that morning you made me eggs.

I hovered on a metal stool above what used to be a white tile floor, and you stood over the stove with your back in a crooked question mark -- you were always too tall for any major appliances, much less me. I remember my eyes darting between the ground and your blue sweater. I remember finding your eyes from glance to glance, tired and sparkling and dark-circled above your smile, when you would turn from the burner to me.

You and all the others invited me over to spend the night ... I think you must have seen the ways that I was hurting without him there and tried to take me in like a new-found family.

I don't remember if it worked or not, what you were trying, dear.

...But I do remember the fluffiest, warmest eggs I'd ever eaten, and you trying to work the french press (unsuccessfully) to make us coffee. I remember heavy cream, and a quiet bus-ride in to school before the sun rose.

I think it must have been cold, but somehow I can't be sure. Faint memories keep persisting, telling me it was the warmest that I'd ever known breakfast could be.

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