Corn Tortillas: an adulthood

This afternoon I toasted corn tortillas in a pan until they burned my fingertips. They were hot, crisped on the outside and soft in the middle, spotted with brown like a bruised banana.
It was strangely libertating. Me, standing on the linoleum and toasting my own tortillas.
It was my fingers that burned,
my hands that shook the pan
and shuffled the hot tortilla onto a plate.

Lately my present has been dedicated to my future:
a list of boxes to check,
dates to write down,
things to do and thoughts to think.
The past is a wall, rushing up behind,
but so is the future; I’m caught between.
Two planes slamming:
the Symplegades clashing closed.
A bird guided Jason; who guides me?

Yesterday, my father taught me how to toast corn tortillas in a pan. Carefully lift the edge to check for the color of bruised banana. Shake the pan to flip the flatbread. Keep your arm loose, like the breath before a meningitis inoculation.

If the past is a wall, then it’s made of glass:
impossible to breach, but transparent enough to see through.
My past is a bird, and only the tail feathers are trapped;
its wings are knowledge, and its speed--

I suppose its speed would be freedom.