The Morning Was In The Bowl

One flake left. She'd been on it for ten minutes, spoon hovering, eyes never once on the cereal. I sat down next to her and she finally took a bite. Then I reached for my bag, and the bite got smaller. She barely closed her mouth.

have you ever felt this way too?

Quick quick, I said. Here, let me. I nudged the spoon toward her and she clamped shut and pushed it away. That last flake was the baby, apparently. You don't eat the baby. I remember thinking, I do not have time for the baby this morning.

Then I picked up my keys. And she froze. Not at the spoon, at my hand. That's when it clicked that she'd never really been stalling on the cereal. When my keys come out, she knows I'm about to be gone. So I set them back down on the table. Sat back in the chair. The morning was hers again, and only then did she let me help her catch the baby.

The last bite was still hard. I still had to leave, that part didn't change. But at the door we swayed for a second, her cheek on my shoulder. I tucked the morning into her pocket, and she tucked one into mine.