In The Simple Things

There's a fire in the wood-stove when I come down to breakfast, a flickering heartbeat in the near-empty room. Smell of wood-smoke, of browning toast, of the damp morning air carried in on my clothes.

The scrape of chairs being pulled in. Watching the butter melt. The first bite of toast and the welcoming creak of the door as more people arrive in and take their seats. The soft mumble of barely-waking conversation, of voices being used for the first time that day.

Hmmm, I say.

He raises an eyebrow.

I'm trying to decide if I want another slice of toast, I explain. Hmmm nmmmm nmmm.

There is a happy sigh as someone takes a sip of coffee.

Well, he says, resting his chin on his hand thoughtfully. Well, you could have one half of my second slice. That way you won't have to decide about having another whole one.

I think, then take the slice from his plate and bite in. A neat little semi-circle like a smile.

I smile back at the toast, and swing my feet back and forth under the table. This morning I can sort of see how it's very very simple after all.