Breakfast in Five Parts

1. Scrambled eggs

Perhaps I should not be up this early, the sky is still dark outside the kitchen window. My family remains asleep, but I am hungry for scrambled eggs. My bare feet have not yet adjusted to the weight of the day. I wiggle my toes on the linoleum floor, and they feel fragile- as if I could bend my pinky toe wrong and it would snap off. I shuffle over to the stainless steel refrigerator and open its large doors. It is taller than I am, I have to go on my tiptoes in order to reach the top shelf to grab the carton of eggs. I select an egg from the soft cardboard carton and put the remaining eggs back in the refrigerator. I crack it open on my parent’s marble kitchen counter and pour the clear, thick white and its yolk into a ceramic bowl. I try and throw the eggshells away but I miss the garbage can and the shells fall on the floor. I step on them with my bare feet and my heart hurts.

2. Milk

I’m thirsty for milk. I add it to my breakfast menu. I remove the plastic jug from the tall refrigerator and place it on the counter. I pull myself up on the countertop to reach the mug in the cabinet above me. I place the mug next to the milk jug and hop down from my perch. I begin to pour the milk, but then I space out. The mug overflows and tears run down my cheeks.

3. Hash Browns

I’ll make myself some hash browns, as a special treat. I retrieve the packaged shred potatoes from the freezer. I place them in a cast iron pan with hot oil in it and the hash browns sizzle, as if surprised by the heat of the pan.

4. Toast

I am still hungry. No matter how much I cook this morning, I seem to want more. So I will also make some toast. My parents only eat whole wheat things, so I put my least desired kind of bread in my shitty little toaster and again lose track of time. The bread becomes burnt toast, the scent of which makes me crinkle my nose in distaste. I sigh and fish out the toast with a metal fork. In an attempt to better it, I apply butter. The butter does not make it better. The troublesome smell fills the first floor of my parent’s house and I can’t undo it.

5. Dining Room Table

I sit down to eat, alone at the wooden dining room table. I arrange my table setting. I place my mug of milk to my left, for easy access by my dominant hand. I place my fork next to it, and a butter knife to the right of the plate. I separate my foods, pushing them away from each other as much as I can. They each take up a third of the plate. The scrambled egg occupies the third nearest to me, in order to create the least distance possible from the eggs to my mouth. The toast and hash browns have no place of importance, they just need to be separated. I wiggle around in my seat. I check the time. I straighten out my silverware. I take a deep breath in, and sigh it out. I’ve lost my appetite.