I think it must have been cold. I remember huddling up close inside myself that
morning you made me eggs.
I hovered on a metal stool above what used to be a white tile floor, and you stood
over the stove with your back in a crooked question mark -- you were always too tall
for any major appliances, much less me. I remember my eyes darting between the
ground and your blue sweater. I remember finding your eyes from glance to glance, tired
and sparkling and dark-circled above your smile, when you would turn from the burner
to me.
You and all the others invited me over to spend the night ... I think you must have
seen the ways that I was hurting without him there and tried to take me in like a
new-found family.
I don't remember if it worked or not, what you were trying, dear.
...But I do remember the fluffiest, warmest eggs I'd ever eaten, and you trying to
work the french press (unsuccessfully) to make us coffee. I remember heavy cream,
and a quiet bus-ride in to school before the sun rose.
I think it must have been cold, but somehow I can't be sure. Faint memories keep
persisting, telling me it was the warmest that I'd ever known breakfast could be.