we share pomelo,
vibrant despite the early sunday gloom.
cut in half, its peel for a bowl,
mum slices the edge
and the in-betweens.
we speak of my great-grandmother’s ghost.
i imagine her,
the coffee steam unfurling,
the smell of peanut butter toast,
the double clunk of her walker,
the shifting of weight on the old chair at the head of the table
where i once sat, too.
we share morning,
thousands of sundays perfected.
she lets them radiate
into her weathered face.
it’s breakfast time.