Packing Lunches

Alarm ringing at 6:30 each morning,

Fighting the urge to hit “snooze,”

I shuffle blearily to the kitchen,

Trip on the dog,

And make lunches.

Sandwiches or leftovers, drinks and fruit,

Sometimes chips or cereal bars,

My sons’ lunches materialized,

Which they consumed,

Not thinking of the hands that made them.

First one lunch, then two, then three,

In diaper bags, then lunch boxes, then paper bags,

Containers changed as ages did,

Then three lunches became two, then one,

The youngest one the only lunch I still make.

For more than thirty years,

Every school week day,

Some summers, I packed lunches,

More than seven thousand,

Hastily consumed, little considered, meals.

Each made with care, packed lovingly,

With thoughts about what each boy likes,

Sometimes a special treat or a favorite fruit,

Always on time so lunch can be grabbed

While rushing off.

Next year I can snooze,

No lunches will need to be made,

The youngest, off to college,

Will be finding his own lunch,

I’ll have mornings to myself.

I’m not sure about this,

But habits form over thirty years--

I’ll probably get up, anyway,

Will make lunches,

No one needs.