Phở at Six, Croissant at Eight (Comfort Food)

Lyrics

The dark is still blue at the window.
The house is holding its breath.
Only one sound.
The pilot light on the stove, a tiny promise.

Six A.M. The heavy pot comes down.
A memory of water, a ghost of salt.
Yesterday's bones, giving up the last of their stories.
I drop in the star anise, the cinnamon bark.
The knob of ginger, charred black over the flame.
The whole kitchen smells like a Saigon street corner, circa 1970.
Steam fogs the glass.
For a moment, I'm not here. I'm there.

This is how I love myself today.
Phở at six, for the person I was.
A deep bowl of what's been lost and what remains.
Croissant at eight, for the person I am becoming.
A quiet negotiation, in broth and in butter.

The bowl is empty, rinsed, and drying.
The coat goes on. The key in the lock.
The morning air is sharp, it wakes up the blood.
The walk to the bakery on Rue de la Paix.
Well, not really. It's just Fourth Street.
But the smell is the same.
Warmth floods the sidewalk.
The baker nods. He knows the order.
One, in a butter-stained paper bag, warm against my palm.

This is how I love myself today.
Phở at six, for the person I was.
A deep bowl of what's been lost and what remains.
Croissant at eight, for the person I am becoming.
A quiet negotiation, in broth and in butter.

Some people pray. Some people run.
Some people make lists of what needs to be done.
I resurrect one ghost, and then I greet another.
One is a slow simmer, a family argument in a language I'm forgetting.
The other, a thousand tiny, shattering layers of engineered perfection.
It makes no sense.
But it makes amends.
For so much.

Eight oh five.
The last flake of pastry on the chipped plate.
The city is waking up outside.
And I am ready for it.