The morning after my mother died, I made my father breakfast.
I opened the cabinets and pulled out two skillets, a small one for eggs, and the larger for bacon. I plugged in the old toaster and placed two slices of wheat bread in it. I noticed the dark crumbs that were at the bottom of the toaster, who knew how long they had been there crisping. When the scent of the bacon filled my nostrils, I began to cry. I distracted myself with scrambling the eggs.
I set the table with all of my mother’s things – her plates, silverware, salt and pepper shakers. I did not cry again until I took the butter out of the refrigerator. The container was half-empty and I knew my mother had consumed part of it. She had touched it.
I looked at the oven clock. It was 8:16.
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This is such a sad and lovely piece! It's proof of the idea that the best way to write your way into a big subject is through a tiny door. The tiny door of making breakfast, of seeing that half-consumed butter, makes your grief and your loss so palpable. Fabulous job!
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