The Weight of Absence

Morning rite, almost liturgical: three slices of Heidelberg Cracked Wheat, toasted, real butter on all three, not too dark, tan; one slice with Bonne Maman Raspberry Preserves. 

On this morning, in the fortnight tidal wake of Good Mother's passing, a succession of holes. Slices hollowed by air, by loss. Heart-shaped, one-half-inch diameter. Upper left, not perfectly duplicated as in an assembly line but discernible sameness just the same. 

With a hole silently skewering the loaf, is it still 24 ounces? 

How much does nothing weigh? 

What is the weight of absence? And at what cost?

Take this bread. Eat. Digest. Begin the day. Lighter than yesterday. And heavier, too. 

break fast, slowly

Upon reflection, breakfast is my favorite meal. This from a guy who sermonizes on the value and importance of communal eating. This from one who loftily pontificates on the tribal need for family interaction around one table, even if voices and views are discordant.

Breakfast involves ritual. Breakfast tea with milk, exactly three slices of Heidelberg Baking Company bread, preferably Cracked Wheat, with Earth Balance buttery spread, one slice with Welch's grape jelly.

I typically read from The New Yorker or the New York Times, one from several days ago.

I take my time.

Time takes me.