you remember her
for her pancakes.
how she happily stood
at the counter,
hands deep into a bowl
stirring.
how bad they were.
how you threw
them off the deck
of the beach house
you were staying at.
how you tossed pieces
of them into the sky
to feed to the seagulls
when she wasn't looking,
how the seagulls
spit them out,
shaking their
collective heads.
smacking their beaks
together.
how could someone
ruin pancakes, you often
wondered. who is she
making them for now?
will anybody ever tell
her? she was such
a nice person.
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