Saturday Pancakes

Every Saturday my father made pancakes shaped like the first letter of our names. Mine was always an M that looked more like a sleepy W. He never fixed it, and I never asked him to.

I'm forty-one now and I make the pancakes. My son's letter is a J, which is harder than it sounds. Some weeks it comes out like a fishhook. He laughs, and I laugh, and for a minute the whole kitchen smells like butter and the radio is too loud and nobody is in a hurry.

I used to think the big moments were the ones that mattered: graduations, weddings, promotions. Those are wonderful. But if you asked me what I would keep if I could keep only one thing, I would pick a slightly burnt fishhook on a blue plate, and a little boy asking for seconds.

Life is so big because it hides in the smallest, most repeated things.