Yeoman Warders

by
Steve Lambert
She’s twelve now, makes her own breakfast.
This morning, a plain bagel with blueberry
cream cheese. She leaves a speckled mess
on the kitchen counter. When I ask, “Have
you brushed your teeth? Put on deodorant?”
she rolls her eyes, stares at the TV, muted,
while the local weatherman waves a hand
over a map of the southeast. She’s too old,
she thinks, for these incursions, and maybe
she is. Maybe we’re just ceremonial now,
decorative. I make her lunch and she kisses
me goodbye. Later K. stirs and gets a coffee.
I watch her go about her morning choreography.
I cut in and we talk a while, plan, bicker, laugh,
then take our places, not quite at arm’s reach,
but close enough to hear each other breathing.