You take a chopstick—never a spoon—and draw one slow figure-eight through the layers. The syrup writes its name in the milk-clouds. It’s a Rorschach test you can drink.
It won’t fix anything. But it will taste like , if home were a liquid and had many mothers. End. Syrup -Many Milk-
Then, the syrup. Not maple—too proud, too woody. This is golden syrup , or maybe a dark molasses that remembers the cane fields. Or better yet: a fruit syrup, boysenberry or blackcurrant, the color of a bruise at sunset. It falls from a spoon in a single, viscous rope. It does not mix. It settles . You take a chopstick—never a spoon—and draw one