Flat Eggs

In my kitchen,
surrounded by the familiar smells of
cominos, chiles y ajo,
I Make breakfast for my granddaughter,
a small, wide-eyed girl with long brown braids,
the handy work of her grandmother.
She awaits the two bright suns frying in the pan,
she calls them,
flat eggs.
She says,
no one makes them better.

I wonder if she’ll look back,
the same way I look back
and remember a small boy
in an adobe house
where the sound of a rooster
greets the morning,
and gentle rays of sunshine
make their way through the small earthen window
beside my bed and gently caress my face.

Then
from under the wooden bed,
the scuffle of tiny hoofs
as a baby goat scurries out to find his mother.

I rise and venture into the courtyard,
noisy chickens scatter beneath my feet,
angry I’ve disturbed their breakfast.

Across the courtyard
is grandmother’s house
fashioned in the old way of mud and sticks.

In her kitchen,
surrounded  by the familiar smells of
cominos, chiles y ajo, stands a tall woman with long braids laced with silver.
I await my breakfast,
two golden suns in a frying pan,
my flat eggs.
I say,
no one made them better.

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