Eating Pancakes In The Center Of Your Heart

I had a taste for something familiar
but didn’t know where to go.
I got in the car, heading one direction
then I knew what I wanted, immediately.

Something hot,
something fresh.

When I got there,
I casually walked in and sat down,
listening to the old records play
the ones you’ve heard a million times
but never judge.

I sat in a booth
and stared out the window.
Everything smelled like cinnamon
and your smile.

Then a woman handed me a laminated menu
and a bottle of syrup,
out of hospitality.

She knew my face
and knew what I wanted
love served in a stack of five.
Nothing else.

Sitting here
with familiar faces of your past
childhood memories,
all of the things that made you.

The butter melted into the pancakes
and mixed into the syrup.
Each bite felt like a secret
you didn’t mean to tell me,
but it just slipped out
relaxed and free,
without worry if I’d keep it,
or the stress of not believing what you said.

And me,
smile stretched across my face,
mouth full of pancakes.

No shame.
Just me, in the center of your heart,
on a Friday morning,
eating pancakes.

Some memories
some people
stay with you for a lifetime,
regardless of what happens.

We never know the reason why.
Sometimes it never reveals itself
and that’s a good thing.

Of all the things that feel important,
I don’t remember anything after that moment.

I don’t know how long I stayed there,
eating pancakes in the center of your heart.

Maybe I’m still there.
Maybe I never left.
Somewhere between the bites,
I still hear you laugh.