Sitting at the kitchen table
in a yellow wallpapered kitchen,
my father reads The Washington Post
cover to cover.

My mother,
floral apron donned,
delivers half a grapefruit,
ruby red, sections cut
for easy scooping.

A refilled coffee cup
followed by soft-boiled eggs
round out the meal
as my suited father rises
to head for work.

Hundreds of mornings
spent in the yellow kitchen
repeating the well-worn ritual.

Looking back,
I wonder if my mother
chose
to begin her days in service
or
if society required acquiescence?