In my great-grandfather's kitchen,
though only his for breakfast time
The butter crackles on the stove
batter spreads into a perfect circle
like wine spilled onto a white tablecloth

In my memory I sit patiently
awaiting the pancakes I love best
I sit in a chair made for someone larger
my bare feet swing wildly as I get my prize

through the glassy prison of memory
I watch as a younger me eats crudely
shoveling mouthfuls of opa wallie's pancakes
into a mouth already a bit like an overfull trash can

I hate this tiny, blond, happy, me
For taking such interest in pancakes
instead of the man who made them.
a man for whom he would have so many questions.

I curse that stupid naive child,
for his joy that day, for his lack of questions
for not knowing better the best man he ever would.