I can’t speak I’ve swallowed my front teeth and have shrunken back into a seashell of disbelief. Where have you fallen from, and where am I falling into? You’ve pushed a coral ceramic bowl into my eyes but I haven’t crunched a cashew of a word to you all day. Wordlessly, you glide away like a murky mirage. I could have missed you if I had stifled a sneeze. Rainbow disks shriek for recognition as I peer into your solemn, silent gift. They bob up and down like sea buoys until I halt them with a small silver spoon. Lucky Charms.