Breakfast

It is a large family; they are poor, they are suffering. 

       Hungry; cold; barely the means to stay alive. The parents worry. The heat has been turned off, the power will be next. Every one of their blankets is in use. Extra socks, on hands and feet. Stocking caps, scarves, and huddling. Close together they keep from shivering. Tired, sick, somber.

       Sleep will not come easily this night, or the next. Mother hasn't eaten in three days, but stirs a pot of water and cabbage. Children come first. Father works away the night in a mine. He might come home tomorrow. Everyone hopes he will bring a paycheck. Men have been working for free these last weeks, spurred on by the promise of better times and back pay with interest.

       Father can do nothing more for his family than he is doing now. Secretly he hopes for a cave-in. Rubble, pain, release.

       Darkness and rising wind.

       Mother leads the children in prayer. Gratitude for life, amen. Eat your soup, drink the broth. No, there are no seconds.

       The children, together, in one bed. Fading, dozing, dreaming. Mother sits in her chair. There will be no breakfast if she doesn't go out. When all of the children have finally fallen asleep, she wraps herself in her nicest shawl, colors her lips a bright red, locks the front door behind her. 

        She reaches the mining camp; they all know her. After the first three transactions, she doesn't bother to straighten her dress or fix her hair again.

        Father comes home in the morning as the children wake. Still no paycheck. Mother comes home shortly after. No words; a banquet breakfast.