Priscilla Atkins My Mother Eats French Toast My mother is eating French toast so that I can write. This is not to say she is the cause— but the effect is the same. In my mind, I see her at a quiet address in the Faubourg St. Germain: the table is round, and a small tricolored dog sleeps on frayed needlepoint at her feet, dreaming the dream a philosopher once dreamt, centuries ago, when the apartment’s occupants ran with the petite noblesse. Now, there are only the embroidered cuffs on my mother’s white blouse, and the teacup she is setting down in its saucer reflecting the shadow of her hand: underneath the glaze an imperceptible crack that will some day rise and further clarify the delicate line that Mother, cup, dog and I are all walking. There are some things we can manipulate for our own purposes. Others, not. The color of the dog, for instance: I wanted him to be blue, but he insisted (stubborn terrier) on staying true to his own imagination.

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