First Meal

I woke this morning in finely worn flannel pajamas, pink with pale brown cats. I clambered out of bed, from under a mound of comforters, and followed sounds to the kitchen. My housemates, Bill and Deb, said, "Would you like french toast?" I said, "Yes." Company was coming. Another family. "Do I have to change?" "No." Minutes later, Alex was there at the door with his baby whose blue eyes know everything. Coffee was brewing. Pears were sliced. Deb asked me to sample a butter from Hawaii that tastes like key lime pie. Max, who is four, came through the door hauling a bear as big as he is, his mother close behind. The heavenly scent of maple syrup. The baby sang through breakfast.