It’s snowing.
The sloppy,
wet kind that
no one enjoys.

I’d give anything
to crawl back in bed,
but it’s Saturday.

I know that I should go.

I’m not even sure
I need to make the
trek down the street
to the farmers market.

The cabinets are
nearly full
to bursting.

But I know
that I need
the excursion.

Suddenly I remember
Saturday mornings
of my childhood,
when Eva would
wake me and
we would hop
in the car and
across the river
and she would set me
down in a chair among
the bustling shoppers
with a steaming cup of coffee
and a plate of French toast
the likes of which I have
never tasted again since.

So I put my coat on.
And I walk down
the street to the
Farmer’s Market.

I don’t buy anything.
But then I take myself
out for breakfast.
Raise my coffee
in a toast to the
empty seat across
the table from me,
wishing more than
anything that I could
have had breakfast
with Eva this morning.


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