Today our soft butter transports me in time to when last it was this soft, sometime last summer when our grief was so near the surface that the softest of breezes would set it afire like a bellows would a kiln.
Now last summer‘s anguish echoes as the waves of grief softly reverberate back through us, each time slightly less than the last, but still there, until it settles into the forever background noise of our lives. With both hands I lean against the counter, head down. Tears fill my eyes, yet I do not cry like I would have, easily, just a few months ago.
I inhale deeply, then exhale. I spread the soft butter on the toast then sprinkle one with cinnamon and sugar then spread another with strawberry jam and call the boys to breakfast.