I miss the smell of bacon
wafting up the stairs on a cold morn
The scent woke me better than an alarm
I would descend the stairs, still sleepy.
The sight of Jesus beckoning me
With an exposed heart and open arms
as Mother Mary was assumed in the adjoining frame
I saw the Apostles across the room, sitting down to eat
From the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee
would join the aromatic bouquet
As always teasers, a prelude to break my morning fast.
But, Jesus is gone now and so is Mary.
The Apostles are rolled up,
tucked away in someone's box.
The Last Supper is over
and no one cooks me breakfast anymore.
The rooms are almost empty.
A life is packed up into various boxes.
The old black skillet is in my box.
I will make my own bacon now.