Roger D. Jones
New Braunfels, Texas, USA
Breakfast at Aunt Tilda's
We are eating quietly. The morning sunlight starts its encroachment up the wall, bright on the checkered tablecloth.
I remember the smell of coffee, the scent of just-made toast (mine a little lighter brown). Scrape of the jelly knife across the crust. Hum of the little fridge.
She sits down across from me and smiles, unfolds her napkin, places it in her lap and begins. One fried egg neatly perched on top of a dry English muffin. Each piece sliced geometrically, slipped quietly into her mouth. Her silent chewing.
In a few moments, Mother comes down to join us.
china hutch rattles
with a passing train