Breakfast.

The human noise we were making.

The clinks and clanks of the breakfast table, as we silently sipped our sustenance of

 coffee and eggs.

It is my favorite sound in the morning time. Breakfast.

You wouldn’t think a time of day would have a sound to it, but it does. Like at two in the morning, when the world is silent and still, but you walk the streets for fear of running into another soul who is aimless and wondering. But it excites you just the same.

Or in the middle of the afternoon, when people are running errands, but not everyone and you stop in the middle of a parking lot and just watch. The kids haven’t left school yet, and the moms and dads are rushing to get everything done, but with purpose and direction; no wanderings or listless afternoons. And I begin to feel lost and hopeless, wondering why it is I cannot help myself but to wander.

But breakfast. And so rarely can we experience this together.

Yes, we make ourselves an egg or two, with a side of toast, and if we are daring some roasted vegetables on top. And we may sit on our couch, or at the table, and in the springtime outside on the porch, eating and chewing our way in silence and hopefully thought. We may take the morning paper onto the porch with us, and skim the front page, maybe the sports page too, and eventually I will land on the crossword puzzle. Filling the boxes with my time, and pretend knowledge of random facts, and crossword clues used time and time again, you know, for the vowels. But sometimes, we don’t. We take that time for granted. I like my moments. And I have wondered how to fill those moments sometimes, and I finally found a way to cherish those moments of solitude and fill them with grace. But that’s a story for another time.

Breakfast is my favorite. Hopefully I have made something healthy instead of just eating raisins, and toast, and then grazing all day long, but when I get to sit down with people, and eat, and talk, and laugh, that’s when magic happens.

Again, I love time by myself. Or I do now.

But...

Last weekend, I got to have breakfast with people. I know that might sound really odd, or lame to some, but for me, it was a nice, the perfect addition to a day. And luckily, it became multiple days.

This time, and these sounds, I didn’t realize that I loved them so until this last weekend.

Waking up Saturday morning and enjoying the daybreak with people, discussing books, and experience and life, as we ran along roads none of us had ever been on before. We showered and dressed, and in all of our awkwardness, joined hands and blessed the food and the day set before us. With tired eyes we put our heads down, and sipped the cups before us. The scraping and clinking of forks on plates, piling eggs, bacon and fruit in equal portions along the edges so as to not touch the other food on the plate. My eyes closed and my heart was warmed with this noise; the low mumble of conversation, at first. And building as we nourished our bodies further. And then, that laugh. Someone breaks that silence with a laugh, leaning back in their chair, tipping it slightly, hearing glasses carried to the table, and smiles squeal across faces in the room. Just pure joy on this morning. I can’t help but smile myself. No more is there discomfort or misunderstanding, awkwardness or quiet. The dam has broken and we enjoy. The sounds of the morning quicken as we laugh together, regaling in stories of past and sharing in adventures and hopes restored. Our plates are cleaned and our coffees gone, running now on energy from ourselves.

We have given and been given.

And I am thankful for this human noise we are always making. 

(We didn't have phones last weekend, so I know these are repeat pics. But without phones or devices, we were able to experience so much more. Live so much more.)

Another Piece.

Just another little thing I have been working on, hopefully sooner or later all the pieces will fall into place and become something really special. 

Thanks all who care, listen and read. Grateful and honored you would take the time. 

Flapjacks

“I’ll have the number three. Can I get an extra hash brown?”

His words were forced, slowed, and slurred. The frightened and dainty cashier visibly sweats from behind the counter, avoiding eye contact with this aged man. His tatter Dockers hung loosely around his waist, held up by his hands lifting up from his pockets. Not enough holes were drilled through the worn leather belt that showed at least an extra inch of worth.

Glassy and foggy, his eyes stared passed knowing exactly what he wanted, but not sure of what he was getting at.

“Sir that will be $6.49?”

She questioned even his ability to pay for his breakfast, glancing up only for a moment to pass her judgment on the matter. Hoping he wouldn’t lunge across the counter, her hands were audibly trembling against the register, anticipating his next move. Glancing back to the fry cooks, the thoughts of their needed protection became entirely visible on her face.

From behind the man, a younger woman stepped out to the counter, eyes downcast at her hands, flipping through the stack of bills.

“Grandpa? Check your pockets, I know you’ve got the change in there. How ‘bout it? Forty-nine cents is all we need.”

Confused the cashier stumbled over her words trying to ask the woman if she would like anything, even feigning a slight apology, embarrassed and relieved all at once. Looking at the two, there was a slight resemblance.

It was the eyes.

“I’ll just have an oatmeal and a coffee, thank you. Maybe a couple of orange juices too”

The young woman glanced slightly at the man, counting out the pennies in his weathered hands, wandering away from the counter. Noticing the Times for the day, he picked one up and found the nearest empty seat to enjoy.

Chuckling, she handed the cashier the money for an extra coffee, and the paper too. She walked over to her grandfather, taking her seat across from him.

Their sockless feet padded down the staircase, hands raised up to grasp the railing and they could hear the TV turned to the news. Opening the door to the basement and another set of stairs, the warmth enveloped them. And as they descended slowly, the shuffle of the paper stopped and then dropped all at once.

He sat in the armchair that had been there forever. At least since she could remember.

His gaze not at the TV, but at the opening in the wall, waited for them. Those eyes stared and shone, squinted by the wrinkled smile he threw at them.

“Good morning, Grandpa!”

The trotted and skipped the few feet to the chair and he squeezed each child.

The girl, a little older, watched as her brother was wrapped into this giant’s arms. The length stretched wide and draped around the little body, drawing him in close.

“Good morning! Did you sleep all right? What do we want to do today? We had better start with breakfast. Grandma isn’t here. How about oatmeal?”

The two little ones, not wanting to defy their grandfather, just looked to the floor, curled their toes drawing patterns in the carpets.

“How about that Scottish restaurant? Just don’t tell Grandma! Get dressed quick, we might miss it.”

Had the kids looked at the clock, they would have realized it was still early, and breakfast service would not end for another three hours.

There were only two seats in the pick up truck, but they were both small enough that the kids would be able to share the passenger side, fighting over who got to sit closer to Grandpa. On the drive he let one of them guide his hand on the stick shift, changing gears down the busy thorough way. Still too young to realize they weren’t actually doing any of the work.

“We’ll have three flapjack breakfast specials,” he said with clarity and authority. Standing next to him, proud and tall, the kids were protected and happy. Nothing could be better than breakfast with Grandpa.

“Remember when we used to come as kids, Grandpa?”

His hand was shaking, trying to decide which to hold: his coffee or his paper. Not seeming to notice her words, she continued on.

“Oh man, that was a treat, when Grandma wasn’t in town, kind of like this weekend, and we would drive down in your old white Toyota? Still cannot believe that thing runs. Do you know where they hid the keys? Maybe we can take it out later today. Go hit a bucket of balls at Jade Greens? Anyways, do you remember that? We used to all get flapjack specials. And B-man would need extra syrup, he would just smother those things.”

Laughing she looked up at him from her own coffee, only to see him missing from his seat across the table. Half his coffee spilled along the edge. She got up to look for napkins when she saw him at the counter, lilting slightly, trying to grab the change from his pockets, catching on the edges.

She laid out some cash on the counter as she caught up to him, resting her other hand on his shoulder.

He turned to her then, tears welling, deepening their grey-blue tint, Her own now filling, she grasped him wide and tights, overlapping her long limbs around his back.

“I just wanted some flapjacks.”