It was a quiet afternoon.

Wasn’t much to do,

So mother made pancakes.

I watched the leaves that flew,

“close the window Mae,

a storm is coming”

that I heard my mother say.

I did as she said,

But then there was a smell,

To the kitchen it led;

Baked goods and chocolate.

It was on the table,

The sweet pancakes she made.

As she was washing the ladle,

A heavy smile she gave.

Heavy because of the scar

That drew from her tear duct to her dimple,

The inflictor wasn’t far

In fact, he would join us soon.

Before I ate my first bite,

I took a good whiff of my pancake

It hit me with a great might

As I’ve seen the white dust hit my mother.

It’s an odd type of white dust,

Like chalk powder, if you will.

For her, it’s a must,

I’ve heard it gives her a thrill.

When I ask grandma now

She says it was her angel dust.

But I can’t help but notice the frown

She makes when I bring it up.

Back to my pancake.

The sugar on it was similar to the angel dust

Boy, it was a good pancake to make.

But I took my first bite

And everything seemed well.

Mother and I were happy

Until we heard the doorbell.

We anticipated his arrival,

But I mostly dreaded it.

He was like a poisonous drug for her survival.

But this one she shouldn’t have mixed,

In my life and hers,

It was a mistake

That would soon conquer,

Her life as a whole

And mine in parts.

He entered with the door to slam,

And mother smiled with her scar

But instead, he picked up the pan.

My pancakes were cold.

Somewhere within their screams

I covered my ears shut

And curled up my knees.

Thinking of my pancakes,

Hoping to get another sniff

To make me forget

This moment brought a terrible abyss.

I heard her smile get heavier.

And I heard a deadly noise.

I covered my ears but another came deadlier.

I prayed it was thunder

But then I saw the man on the floor

And his blood all under.

My mother stood over the corpse

And the shot was not thunder.