6 AM

6 AM
Lee.

Breakfast at my home is unlike any other.
I don’t have a bowl of cereal or a traditional English fry-up;
Neither a slice of hot, buttered toast.
Instead, I have a slice of the Past.
It's nearly quiet at my table as I consume slices of memories; quiet except for the occasional trill of birdsong and the gurgle of percolating coffee.
Amidst and inbetween my ruminating of childhood trauma and adult mishaps and the coffee's percolating,
I remember love, and the face of a girl who wore a flower in her hair, and her scent, oh her scent! was as potent as the coffee that percolates as I ruminate, sat at a table, devouring memories, not wasting a crumb.