The poptarts are on fire

The morning after
Jacob died,
I found you in the kitchen,
staring into a cup of cold coffee
that you stirred mechanically
with one of his silver spoons,
looking into its creamy depths
as though you could find him there
and pull him out
and make him pancakes for breakfast.

You looked at me with sad blue eyes,
and I knew we were thinking the same thing,
though neither of us
cared to say,
"This is the sort of day he loved."
It was raining.

There was a loud popping sound,
and a sizzling crack,
and the reverie was broken as we both looked to the toaster,
where the poptarts you had forgotten about
had caught fire.
And as our eyes met over the long expanse
of the kitchen table,
we burst into a frantic sort of hysterical laughter.

Because sometimes,
if you didn't laugh,
you'd cry.

The End

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