Scrambled Eggs and Cucumbers
I recall a day when I heard your voice in the walls
“Daddy – Bottle”
“Daddy I want my Bottle”
When you were gone I would awake in the morning,
Sometimes out of the reflex… yelling,
“Coming Cala, Coming Baby Girl, I love you.”
Only projections of of her voice in my mind,
The room and house, empty.
In emptiness I often yearned to hear,
A little voice reply to my yells in the air,
“Caaalllaaa, Caaalllaaa,I love you my baby girl.”
Of which I would imagine you
Telling me that you love me
“I love you Daaadddyyy”
I can hear it now…
Often I would find my solace in Scotch,
Sometimes in Guinness or wine,
Sometimes in a poem.
Uncertain of the future, often still and opaque,
As time past, our time together came,
Summers, Easter, and Christmas,
Those cries for a bottle changed,
To scrambled eggs and fried potatoes with ketchup,
“She can’t have eggs every day” her mother would say,
How does she know?
When we watch TV, it’s cucumbers, vinegar, and salt.
My father only knew how to cook an egg or make cucumber,
An immortalized family trait,
I suppose what I am trying to say is that I grow with you,
I cherish the passing of generations of love,
The voice is loud for me again,
Time is forgiven for the past as for what is now,
And what the future brings for us,
Your eggs and potato are almost done,
So come sit with me my baby girl,
I love you Cala, I love you.
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