A piece of toast

Funny how something as simple as a piece of toast can bring back memories that are 20-30 years old. Tonight I made toast out of slices of white bread and stick butter. While I was making it I caught myself thinking back to the many mornings I spent with with Granny and Papaw and the many pieces of toast she had made over the years. I can see her now, in her housecoat that went to her knees, eggs frying in an electric skillet, gravy thickening up in a pan on the stove and the smell of that toast, on an old metal sheet pan, getting perfectly brown around the edges while the butter bubbled and soaked into the bread in the 4 corners where the pats of butter had been placed. It was the best toast. No electric toaster can make toast the way Granny did. Then I picture my Papaw, in a pair of khaki pants with some sort of stain on them and a white t-shirt sitting at the head of the table, covering his food in pepper and dipping that toast in white milk. I loved my mornings with them. I loved my afternoons with them. I loved every moment I got to spend with them. I miss my Papaw more than words can say and I don't get to see my Granny as often as I would like, but oh how I have the best memories of my childhood with them.
As I served James his dinner tonight, he looked at that toast and immediately said "that's how mom used to make toast, it's the best". I smiled.
My four little pieces of toast had made us remember those we loved and had lost to soon. It made us remember their faces, their smiles, the happy times we had with them. A little piece of toast brought the ones we loved back to us, if just for a moment, and we remembered and smiled.

“I don't drink coffee I take tea my dear
I like my toast done on one side ..."― Sting