I still remember those dreary Tuesday mornings.
I'd set my alarm an hour early,
rise from the warmth of my bed,
and patter my bare feet down the frigid floor,
knocking twice on your door:
"Wake up, wake up, it's omelet day."
Grumpily and grudgingly, you'd rise.
While you showered, I steeped tea,
sizzled butter in the pan.
You'd stumble into the kitchen with your clumsy feet and intricate hands,
beat the yolks,
not much was spoke.
As the yellow batter sizzled, I placed the plates with a clatter,
you reminded me not to forget the salt and pepper.
Bread sliced, toast popped, tea sugared, table neat,
and then the eggs were ready for our AM feast.
We'd sit at the table, chattering through stuffed mouths,
debating the chore of rushing out in the rain,
groaning about having math class first thing.
Then I'd clear the dishes and you'd rush off
to grab some paper you forgot
and we'd walk to school together,
bobbing heads beneath my umbrella.
I wish I could have told you then
that Tuesdays were my favourite day.
They made suffering through endless Mondays
worth all the pain.
I wish I could tell you
now, years later, half a country's length away,
the sound of frying eggs
still sounds like your wordless way
of saying you loved me.