Big Things Coming

Honey, I’m home. Just kidding. No, Martha, there will be no shouting hellos this morning. Nothing to wake or shake you, dear heart. Only the slightest of sounds as I set to work and fill your halls with sweet smells and true love.

Light switch, look at you. Not the most photogenic face, but that comes from experience and I adore you anyway. Husband looked healthy then, but so did Dad before he raged, you know, against the dying of the light. Do the boys keep in touch? Well, that’s what happens. Don’t be too sad. I have just the thing.

Really, Martha, you should keep a better kitchen! Milk is nearly expired and crumby crumbs on the floor. Sure I brought my own milk, my bag of delicious treats, but what about you? Do you usually leave dishes in the sink when company is over? No, I suppose you couldn’t have known.

How do you like your eggs, I wonder? Mama always scrambled eggs, but I discovered one day that she preferred them over easy and it was Dad who liked them scrambled.

I know you like waffles because you almost bought some at the market. Why’d you put them back? Concerned about carbs? That’s silly, Martha. I will make you waffles. When you eat them, when you put them in your mouth and chew, you will wonder if it’s all a dream. Maybe it is. What brand are these? No brands. Baked from scratch, Mama. Same goes for the muffins, which take quite a while, and the hollandaise. So it seems, I’ve decided to poach your eggs and top them with shreds of fresh Alaskan crab. Sound yummy? Yeah I saw you eyeing the crab at the meat counter. Aren’t those prices outrageous?

One morning I got up before Mama, which was very early, and cooked her some eggs the way she liked them. Dad found out and said only faggots liked to cook. I cried, like a faggot and cuddled with Mama. Did you hear about the time I got arrested for being such a faggot?

“Portland’s serial snuggler, the young man who snuck into women’s apartments just to cuddle with them, has been sentenced to two years’ probation. District Judge said before pleading guilty earlier to counts of unauthorized entry, the perpetrator, an honors graduate with double degrees in English and Women’s Studies, aspiring writer and assistant chef at exotic downtown restaurant Zooloo’s, led a commendable life, one that would make any parent extremely proud.”

I know, hard to believe. Dad almost had a heart attack but that actually didn’t happen until later. Suddenly, I was a sex offender. I may have cleaned counters, folded laundry, and even stocked a few refrigerators, but I never, never tried to have sex with anyone. And I don’t see how it was offensive. Sarah didn’t seem to think so. Why would she let me rub her warm tummy for almost an hour and then call the police?

At least Dad stopped calling me a faggot after that. If only he knew that I couldn’t be one even if I wanted to. I wasn’t made for sex, Mama, only love. He told me once that I would never have a love in my life like he had with her. Can you believe that? Martha, can you hear the bacon sizzle?

Apparently once when I was very young, I told my dad not to worry, as if he needed reassurance from me the child. “Big things coming,” I told him.

In college, I wrote a series of plays that were produced by a local troupe. “Weird” was his review, if I recall. When I told him I graduated cum laude with two degrees (he didn’t have time to keep up on my progress, although he paid the tuition), his exact response was, “What did it get me?” My book, a collection of short stories published by a small independent press, he never read because Dad didn’t read. Still, his hopes were high that I might actually make some money as a writer so I could quit my “cooking job” as he called it. Of course I never did, and this became even more impossible once I was an official offender of sex.

When I was 26, Dad had a heart attack that killed him. Before he died, he asked me something. “Where are they?” Mama thought he was referring to the doctors. But I knew what he meant. All the big things.

Martha, your husband is dead but you don’t have to be. You did not live in his shadow. Your politics were not watered down by his. You compassionate woman, take your sons in your arms the next time they visit and cuddle them silly.

After Dad died, Mama’s existence became awkward. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She stopped being Mama and I watched her slowly starve to death.

Martha, look at this. Suddenly, one after another, pow pow pow, all these sweet smells are ready to reach you. Almond crusted French toast, two on a plate next to buttery waffles and perfect pancakes. Seafood eggs benedict. Bacon, crisp or soft, take your pick. Fresh juice, milk, fruit, come try. Your alarm clock will sound. I want to go in there and cuddle you beautiful woman until it does; but I have an escape to make.

You’ll get up, Martha, alone in your family’s house and before you go to work, third grade teacher, please sit down and eat the most important meal of the day. You may be surprised, perhaps alarmed when you find it waiting for you. This is okay.

You know, a woman named Susan coined the name Breakfast Burglar. She told reporters of her mixed feelings regarding the incident and the meal that seemed crafted especially for her (it was) and admitted to eating some before calling the cops.

“I feel violated,” she had told reporters, “but also, kind of special.”