My Mama's French Toast

I’ve always loved my mama’s french toast. She makes it every once in a while, and used to make it every now and again. I love the way it soaks up butter and syrup and care. I love the way it’s always perfect, on the first bite and the thousandth. I love the way she loves the way I love it. I can still see her standing in the kitchen over the stove when I close my eyes and think of tougher times. I see her with no chips on her shoulders, despite the burdens she carries, just flipping toast after toast. I imagine she’s humming the words to a Madonna song I’ve never heard, that she cracks the eggs to the tune of. I feel my fears melt away as the cinnamon leaks from the pan and waltzes over to me to tickle my nose. I feel my worries shrink away as the stack of french toast grows. And I smile. My mama’s french toast always made me forget about the uncertainties, but more important, the looming certainties. The unavoidable change that came and went everyday. The crises that became routine. The holes in hearts and stabs in souls. The fear. The pain. I would always forget it all, and be filled with sweet cinnamon love. Each bite tasted like a grin, and each piece felt like a hug. And when I was done, everything felt... alright. It would feel like we could move on, like we could move higher. It would feel like that french toast was pan seared rocket fuel and we were spaceships of hope. Everything would be alright, thanks to my mama’s french toast. My life has been a connect-the-dots picture between french toast mornings, you couldn’t see me without these pieces. I’d be an incoherent mess of meaningless scribbles, without these pillowy pieces. My skin is eggs, my heart is milk, my soul is bread, and I’m all dusted in cinnamon and sugar. There’s more than that put into the toast, but she only ever left me with what was best. She had her own french toast that her mama made her, that she no longer gets to eat. And that’s the thing that worries me most, what will happen when she can’t make any more for me? Will my picture wind away into meaninglessness? Will I know how to get to the next numbered dot? Will I remember what it tasted like when she made it in a way only she could? Will I be able to remember the recipe? These thoughts disappear, and are replaced by a smile, when I lean over my plate and take another bite.