Noticing my slightly tempered mood,
she walked over and set down a plate of pancakes
on the table in front of me.
The plate made a faint clank as she released her grip
from the edges.

I observed the contents:

golden brown hot cakes
that smelled faintly of fresh pastries
and were light and fluffy to the touch.
They formed a tower of sorts
as Mother continually added to the stack.
Atop was a small square of unsalted butter.

I grabbed the syrup from the counter beside me

and proceeded to drizzle the thick liquid over the stacks,
completing the look.

Western-style breakfast, huh?

Usually, when Mother even dared to try,

the most she would make was toast.

I wonder if there's a special occasion today...