Peanut butter and Jam

Peanut Butter and Jam

I’m still that peanut butter and jam kind of girl,

especially for how I spread them, thick and swirled.

My mouth waters at this childhood delight,

jam of every fruit, though guava feels just right.

I remember the flavors, the scent in the air,

only my childhood could bring such a flair.

But yes, I’ve grown to love all jams, all kinds,

each type of peanut butter, smooth or with finds.

Some so creamy, they glide like a dream,

others with chunks that in breakfast gleam.

In this frantic cycle of sleep, work, repeat,

A cozy breakfast is a rare and cherished treat.

I usually rush with coffee to go —

a sip in one gulp, as I comb to and fro.

One minute to towel my sleepy eyes,

two glasses of water, a pinch of salt, lemon, no lies.

Off I go until darkness falls again,

and yeah, I miss those lazy mornings when

I’d sit with peanut butter and jam so divine,

a macchiato whipped to perfection — mine.

Slowly chewing on memories of the past,

nostalgic for the days that couldn’t last.

Scolded for coming home dirty from play,

fighting with neighbors over MikMik, in the fray.

Bruises from playing rough, like a boy —

moments of childhood, pure, unfiltered joy.

Mostly, I’m wistful for the times that fly,

gone in a glimpse, leaving me to sigh.

I can’t be that girl anymore, it’s true,

but at least I can buy my own jam and brew.

As I weary of the past and fear what’s to come,

I find solace in simple pleasures, under the sun.