breakfast

by Jenny Hong

i awaken to the promise of eggs

that burst open and bleed joy

into the pores

of toast, thick and inviting,

spilling

over the edges like a sunrise.

my mother dries her hands on a yellow towel

and brings out a basket of lychee,

pushing a thumbnail into rough, leathery skin,

and moon meets mesa

as she peels back

from the flesh a membrane

pink and thin

as an eyelid from sleep. s

he tells me i need to be careful out there,

a morning routine, rattles off things i need to look out for

and i know every word

before she says it but i listen

as i fill my mouth with the taste of home

because every ten a.m. breakfast is a reminder

that our lychees are numbered,

that yolk leaks out of egg white too fast to hold onto,

that no smudge of daylight

peeks over the crust of horizon

without intending to stay,

and no sunrise

is accidental.

- j.h.

While reflecting on my last few days of summer before leaving for college, I remembered seeing this anxious, sorrowful look on my mother’s face. I realized that while we anticipated the future, we were both trying to hold on to something, wondering whether breakfasts and lychees and our relationship would ever be the same.