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Breakfast

"Morning, darling."

Harm startled at the voice behind the counter as he wandered into the kitchen, barefoot and wearing only sweatpants, rubbing a hand over his sleepy eyes just as the late December sunrise peeked over the horizon. He was surprised to find his mother in a plush terry cloth robe and fuzzy slippers, furiously mixing an enormous bowl of pancake batter.

"Mom? What are you doing up so early?"

"Thought I'd get a head start on making breakfast," Trish replied. "It's been a long time since Frank and I have had so many guests in the house...we better feed them properly if we want them all to come back."

"Mom, Mac and I are only going to get married once," Harm pointed out.

"Well, that doesn't mean you all can't come back again," Trish insisted. She shifted the bowl in her arms and started whisking with the other hand.

"Mom, let me help."

"I've got it, darling."

"Mom." Harm gently pried the whisk out of her hands and continued stirring the batter. "You want to get the milk?"

"Oh, all right."

Trish had only taken a couple of steps towards the refrigerator when something made her glance back at her son. He was standing directly in a patch of early morning sunlight, and she couldn't help but admire him with a sense of pride for the man he had become. It was at times like this that she was reminded of a Christmas Eve long ago.

~*~o~*~

"Mom, let me help."

Trish stood at the counter, stirring pancake batter, as Little Harm padded into the kitchen, with bare feet and without a shirt.

"Darling, please put on a shirt...you'll catch a chill."

Harm made a face. "Mom, I'm fine. I want to help with the pancakes."

"All right, if you insist," Trish relented, handing the bowl over to her son as he clambered onto a chair. "Stir firmly but carefully. You want to get the lumps out but don't spill batter everywhere."

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

"Keep stirring, darling," Trish instructed. "I'm going to answer the door."

She had no way of knowing that answering the door was about to break her heart.

"Mrs. Patricia Rabb, the United States Navy regrets to inform you that the aircraft of Lieutenant Harmon Rabb, Senior, was shot down over Vietnam on December 24, 1969."

The solemn words hit Trish like a violent punch to the stomach. She covered her mouth with her hand and fought to breathe through a painful stabbing sensation inside her chest. She was certain that it was her heart breaking. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank into a chair and began to weep.

Lost in her own grief, her son's worried voice sounded so faint and far away...

"Mom?"

~*~o~*~

"Mom?"

Trish was startled out of her memory by Harm's voice. "I'm sorry, darling, what did you say?"

"The milk?"

"Oh. That's right." Quickly, Trish took the milk out of the refrigerator and brought it to the counter.

"Mom, why are you looking at me like that?"

Trish smiled a little nostalgically and cupped Harm's face in her hands, framing his handsome features. "You look so much like him," she whispered. She wrapped her arms around her son and closed her eyes as she pulled him into a hug.

After a long moment, Trish raised her head and patted Harm's bare chest. "Darling, I'll start the pancakes. Why don't you go put on a shirt?"