It's time for breakfast wrapped in burritos. While scrambling eggs and grating cheese, the food will take new forms. In the fridge, tortillas will wait for the teeth that come in the morning.
At six-ish a small person will get out of bed and change from Pull Up to Undies. I'll comb his hair, he'll mess it up. He'll eat blue toothpaste with sparkles, I'll try to get some on his teeth. But first, I'll hand him a burrito.
He'll ask if it has potatoes, and I'll say no, because love is the little things. Love is no potatoes.
I'll take his picture, he'll protest. I'll ask him if he needs to go potty, he'll say no. He won't forget his backpack but he will forget his brother who will ask to go to school too.
Squeezing him I'll say "One is more than enough."
I'll carry the smaller one with me to the house, to the empty quiet, to the kitchen counter. Smiling, I'll hand him a burrito...and go cry quietly in my eggs.
