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.