In my kitchen,
I make breakfast for my granddaughter.
A small, wide-eyed girl with long brown braids.
She calls the two bright suns swimming in the frying pan,
flat eggs.
She says, no one makes them better.
I wonder
if she’ll look back one day,
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 a small earthen window beside my bed
and gently caress my face.
Then
from under the wooden bed
comes 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 that I’ve disturbed their breakfast.
Across the courtyard
is grandmother’s house
fashioned in the old way of mud and sticks.
In her kitchen,
she makes me breakfast,
two golden suns swimming in a frying pan,
my flat eggs.
I say, no one made them better.
