I
was beaten into the mindful submission of milk and cereal, of bland mornings
and alcoholic evenings, and I pretended to be happy and did rather well at it,
a stage actress in my own life. I was at loss for reasons and yet stuck firm to
my ideals, to my hope, hope for more than this, as I spooned the soggy shredded
wheat into the cavern that hadn’t told the truth in years.
The
first time he fed me breakfast, it was eggs benedict, and he said he could do
better on the hollandaise.
All
my walls fell down and then I was home.
And
I’ve been home with him ever since.
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