I can see my mother, apron over her nightgown,setting the table for breakfast, a stack of lavashsteaming at the center, honey and milk skin,feta with fruit, chickpea-and-chicken mashdusted with cinnamon. I can see my father,already in his coveralls and cap,filling a cup to the brim with hot tapwaterand emptying it into another cupand emptying that cup into anotheruntil all three are warmed for tea. I can hearthe kettle whistling and pull the covers tightaround my head, against the coming light,for any moment now they will open the doorand lift the covers and find that I'm not there.