Three to Four-Years-Old

Memories tend to be sans words; more images than anything else.
Smells are hard-wired. Waking up to the smell of cigarettes, coffee, and toast.
Of those three, it is the smell of toast that takes me back to waking up, my parents in the room getting their breakfasts and getting ready to go to work. my dad trudging off into wintry morns–a blast of cold air briefly intruding on the deep warmth of mornings waking up inside. Me the one to stay home.

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