Pancake spill

Morning light pools on syrup—

thick, slow, uncatchable.

My nephew’s wide eyes

catch the question hovering

like steam off cold coffee.

“Is he real?”

The kitchen waits,

half-eaten pancakes silent witnesses.

I swallow something bitter,

not syrup, not truth, but the weight

of knowing the magic is breaking,

a crack in the afternoon,

a quiet fold in the fabric we made to hold him.

No answer fits right,

only the slow spill of syrup

and small, shattering silence.