Every morning my girl says “what’s for brefkist, mommy?” I love her dyslexic revision of the word. The word that means breaking the fast or opening the sun to a new sky. The world of sugary cereals floating in milk or eggs sizzling in bacon grease. The best breakfast is always the one brought to your bed on a tray by your daughter – a microwaved mug of tea, items that don’t need cooking like yogurt, fruit, and granola. The quality of it doesn’t matter. It is the generosity of not having to move one’s warm body, not having to bring one’s feet to the cold floor. You are not yet hungry but you eat it anyway, this offering of love, this brefkist – a word that sounds more like a brief kiss, the way a child rubs her cheek and some eyelashes against your face, the way an arm barely touches another arm, or the way she suddenly grows up into a woman in front of you, and you are shocked by how brief it really is.