He picked a cup from in the cupboard,
Laid it on the granite counter.
He flicks the switch on the kettle
Chucks a teabag into the cup.
The sizzling and the rumble of the kettle,
The fingers tap side with impatience.
The rush of the water hitting the cup
Filling the contained space,
He placed it back on the latch and didn’t switch off the power.
He opened the drawer slowly,
He began to rustle around for the perfect teaspoon.
I heard the cupboard creak and the sugar was pulled out,
A heaped spoonful of grain was tipped in.
But he didn’t put it back,
The cupboard was still open.
He got milk from the fridge,
Unscrewed the lid and poured it in the tea,
But he left everything out.
He stirred the tea once or twice,
Then he poured it down his throat,
He put back the cup and left it half full.
He lifted a tin from his jacket pocket,
And his hand wrapped around a pipe.
His hat found its place on his head,
And his coat came with him.
He left the kitchen slowly.
The front door flew open and
The wind pushed through like an army of invisible horses.
The door shut behind him.
Tears welled in my eyes,
My dad always says goodbye with a kiss and a cuddle.
He wasn’t the same…
By Hollie Thomas 6NA
Inspired by Breakfast by Jacques Prevert