The Fresh Persepctive

I think anytime I eat a Pop-Tart I feel like a kid again. Same with a Hot Pocket or pizza rolls. Yet I think the thing that makes me feel good and gives me happy thoughts is a crispy piece of toast with butter. It is a simple food and yet it reminds me of my grandma.

I would wake up at her house and she would be sitting at the table a cheap romance or detective novel in her left hand and either a piece of crispy brown toast with butter or a cup of coffee. Her hair would be still wet from taking a shower and she would finish her paragraph and set the book down and tell me what I could have for breakfast.

I don’t think anyone cares but she had a simple way of acknowledging you and making you feel seen. I remember the way sound floated through their house in the early hours of the day. Knowing that when I went out there she would have a cup of coffee and a book. If it was early enough she would still be at the table with her coffee, toast, book combo. Maybe her legs would be crossed and she would be angled away from the table, that was her default. Sometimes, and I like to believe this only happened when the book was really good, she would be turned to the table and holding the book with two hands and only occasionally letting go with one hand to take a bite or drink.

Their house was always warm as well. One time I arrived very late at night and went straight to bed. Before falling asleep I texted my mom that the house was really hot and I was boiling alive. In the morning, after sleeping in, I awoke to my grandmother in her spot drinking her coffee and eating her toast. As I sat down across from her she lowered her book and asked, “how was the room last night?” I tried to be diplomatic about it and say it was a little warm but I was fine. As I said it though I realized that I had not texted my mom but my grandma that the house was so hot. She wasn’t mad, she just laughed and went back to reading.

I miss her.

I can’t remember how many years it has been since I last saw her sitting there eating a piece of toast in the morning but she was sick for a while and I was too busy getting married and having kids to visit that often. I was there at the end though. I made sure to drop everything and have one last chance to sit by her side.

I don’t eat a lot of toast is the thing. Yet, no matter how long I live I will remember those mornings. I will remember that it was always dark brown toast slathered with just plain butter, sometimes margarine, and straight black coffee. She did not like jelly and peanut butter was for sandwiches.

So now I may not eat toast that often and I can’t stand the taste of coffee but I read. I read because I want to feel closer to her and that was the thing she was passionate about. She read sometimes until 1 or 2 in the morning and was up by 7 reading and drinking coffee.

Maybe I should go read my book…