Friday is a boy hiding under his bed before school because he was told he didn’t clean his room when he’s sure he did. It is crocodile tears, a cradling, a murmuring of mama words of sorry because she said things in haste and didn’t take the time to explain and teach.
Friday is the smell of burnt herbs and open containers and used bowls littering the countertop.
It is April showers shimmering like gold.
Friday is a line for fresh hot bagels and a man in a rainbow vest offers to pay for the officers’ breakfast. They are brothers, jolly, and tell a joke about donuts.
Friday is things a little out of order. Vietnamese coffee and lox on the porch swing as the sun soaks up the rain while the kitchen is still a mess. But food and coffee should be enjoyed hot, the kitchen says. So I linger and listen to the birds ecstatic that it’s spring, chattering on about the rich soil and green.
And I swing on the swing and slowly inhale the stretching of morning, its long arms uncurling like steam.
mijin kang 