of waffles and maple syrup

my mother doesn't cook anymore, but my father has started making her waffles for breakfast

this morning,
I woke with the sun
warm against my cheek,
a Chopin nocturne
dancing in my ears,
the scent of waffles
wafting to my tongue,
and in that moment
between sleeping and awake—
I was five years old
and it was the last summer day
before I would climb
a school bus (that first step
taller than my knee)
in a blue dress,
the smell of waffles and maple syrup
drifting from my hair all day
with the promise of home again.

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