When I was young
I always thought it was strange
how my father ate the burnt bits.
The crusted edges and blackened kernels.
He always seemed to enjoy
the charcoal-flavored scrapings
from the bottom of the pan.
I always thought he had to be lying.
“Helps to clean my teeth” he joked,
with his crooked, dingy smile.
Now I’m older. Too much older,
for the memories that feel like yesterday.
And my son laughs with his whole heart,
the way I used to.
I make for him the things I learned
in my father’s house.
And the things I learned when I left.
And sometimes I find myself like a child again.
As I set the place for him,
and see how he’ll respond,
to the food I hardly recall
and spent my life remembering.
Careful taste, hesitant bite,
and finally, his face like the sun,
his eyes dancing, and a thumb to the sky,
he beams.
He is so happy,
so full of life. And when he smiles,
his teeth are
like perfect little tiles.
And I eat the burnt bits.
I never knew
they would taste so sweet