Elementary School Saturday

The smell precedes it; wafting up the stairs at ten in the morning. Like a zombie, you rise from bed, still not quite awake. You know it before you see it. Pancakes. 

Wander down the stairs, and there he is, Mick, face alight as he flips them, buttery and steamy. He’s wearing orange swim trunks and a too-tight t-shirt. Spilled flour decorates his clothes and the hardwood floor; he smiles from behind a chalky coating in your direction. Beside him rest the pancakes, stacked gingerly on a ceramic white plate resting on the edge of the island. Tan, crisped, round, they make a small tower, one on top of another, haphazard siblings. There’s a softness to them, like pillows or sand, but the edges are slightly burnt. Heat rises off the stack, frolicks into the kitchen. The air is sticky with summer heat and the noise of fans fill the house.

You laugh, and grab a pancake, the fluffiest one. It’s hot in your hands, yet you toss it in your mouth without a second thought. The sugar melts on your tongue, warm and welcoming. The texture is smooth, fresh. He’s added vanilla or lemon juice or extra butter or whatever the secret ingredient is – you’re too little to know yet. You smile up at him, crumbs on your lips and between your teeth, and he laughs in that high pitched, prepubescent voice. You are eight and ten, too young for exams or bickering or anything beyond play. Your main concern is where the syrup is, and he’s one step ahead of you, pushing it across the island in your direction.