Breakfast in Portland, Maine

When I was 13 and just out of 8th grade, we moved to Portland. We had lived in a few southern Maine towns, and they all had two names: West Cumberland, North Pownal, Steep Falls. But, although their names were bigger, they were much, much smaller than Portland. We moved to a 4th floor flat on a huge street lined with beautiful, giant elm trees. The best part of it — and one reward for walking up all those stairs several times each day — was that it was the tallest building on that part of the street. Our apartment was filled with sunlight, and we had an unobstructed view of the harbor. And, although I hadn’t lived there all my life, Portland became my home town.

My mother placed a rocking chair near the bay window in the dining room, and I believe she found peace and some relief from her busy days when she sat there looking at the water or reading a book.  However, I loved our kitchen best — early in the morning when quiet filled the house. It was filled with a mellow glow, warm and wonderful. As I waited for toast to pop up from the toaster that sat on our breakfast table, I’d sip a mug of hot chocolate and think of pretty much nothing at all. The day would simply ease into my mind.

My short poem “Breakfast” brings me  a picture of early mornings on State Street. It fills me with quiet even now.  And, it also makes me wonder why we no longer keep toasters on kitchen tables!

Thank you for visiting. I wish you the peace of quiet mornings filled with light.

Breakfast

I loved breakfast
in the kitchen
of my youth
where the small, square
maple table
reflected morning’s
golden light into the room,
and the beginning day
felt soft and warm,
the quiet
interrupted only
by the toaster
popping up its own
small, golden squares.