Breakfast with My Parents by Terri Kirby Erickson

I loved my parents’ pillow-creased faces,
their soft robes—how their house smelled
of fresh-perked coffee, orange juice, and
toast with jam. We would sit together at
the dining room table, my mother slicing
and sugaring my father’s grapefruit since
he could barely see it—my father holding
a newspaper his failing eyesight no longer
let him read. Still, he liked the feel of it in
his hands, the sound of the paper rustling.
He would eat the glistening pieces of fruit,
talking between bites, his voice deep and
more gravelly in the mornings. My mother,
meanwhile, would move on to making the
eggs, whipping the whites and yolks with
a dinner fork while adding a dash of cold
milk, her golden hair gleaming with light
from the kitchen window. And Dad, while
he waited, would often turn on the radio,
its cheerful voice saying what he already
knew. It was going to be a perfect day.



Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” The Sun, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.