Tea Ceremony

Sunday morning breakfast
was as close as we
could come to sacred
ritual in our house.
Mom slept in
and dad would
orchestrate in
his best robe–
the eggs here
the butter there,
and the coffee pot
to the right of syrup.
He cooked the cakes
and bacon
in the cast iron pan
grandfather once used
to crack heads
at the bar and grill
on Ludlow Street.
Dad always claimed
the spatter of
the bacon grease
made much
the same sound.

We ate
until our ribs ached.
Until we could
barely breathe.
Until the very thought
of rising from our chairs
was far beyond
our quiet contemplation.