The Buttered Toast

The morning sun filters in
From the kitchen window
Draw patterns over the checkered table-cloth
A big blob, a small blob, tiny round spheres

Pop!! springs the freshly toasted toast from the toaster
Whiff of same sweet aroma arises from my yesteryears
Dad applying thinnest of the thin layer of butter
Morning after morning, hot buttered toast, relished by my little brother

As needles of the clock
Stretched themselves straight
Hurriedly mom would finish the morning chores
Prepare our lunch, and rush out of the gate

It’d fall upon dad
To prepare our breakfast
Pack our lunch, tie our laces
And send us off to school

Today, I try hard to pack my kids’ tiffin
Just the way dad used to do
Small packets made out of waxed bread wrappers
Neatly tied with rubber-bands, I miss these though

Soft paranthas, fresh veggies, little salad & a piece of sweet
Sometimes dates, sometimes peanuts, a fruit of the season was a must
And in every tiny bit of crevice in between the packets
Dad had this dreadful habit of squeezing in lots of love

Yes, that’s what mom & dad used to do
Feed me and my brother
Heaps of selfless love
And bundles of virtues

The values we both hold today
We owe it all to them
I can never pack the tiffin like my dad
But “how to be a good mom?”, that I picked from him!

July 11, 2020