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coffee and stuff. But I hope …
SHE PAUSES
At the thump … th-thump
of Grandfather lumbering
like an old bear up the hall.
His question precedes him
through the doorway. What is that
I’m smelling? A hot breakfast?
Aunt Cora puts a finger to her lips,
but it is the uneasiness in her eyes
that swears me to secrecy.
Yep, she says. I must have dreamed
about pancakes, because I woke
up half-desperate for them.
Thump … th-thump … thump.
Slower than usual. He must
have had a toss-n-turn night.
Pull up a chair, instructs Aunt
Cora. They’re just about ready.
Apple butter or maple syrup?
The only answer is both. I watch
Grandfather ease into a chair.
Aunt Cora sets a heaping plate
in front him. He inhales buttery
steam, takes a big bite. Hope you
dream about breakfast more often.
He gives her a funny look, one
I can only interpret as sensing
something different about her.
She’s not about to fill him in.
