Toast, or banana pancakes.
The toast was vile.
The banana pancakes, on the other hand, were divine.
Always. The bananas, soft and fleshy, piping hot and sweet.
The edges crisped in the grease of a pan with years of
burnt in grime.
(Wherein lies, of course, what made them good to eat.)
You'd sprinkle sugar on yours;
On mine, I'd pour
the condensed milk they brought us, with our tea
(and you'd give all of yours to me).
My breakfasts were banal before this;
and ever after, too.
Now muesli seems so meagre
and my mornings are so blue,
But I couldn't eat banana pancakes.
No.
Not without you.
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