I remember when my Papa was still around, getting up out of bed around midnight when I would stay with him and my Mema, and sneaking into the kitchen. He'd always be awake, and when I'd wander in wanting a midnight snack or feeling restless, he'd indulge me. Every time. I would shuffle in, and sit down next to him at the kitchen table, and we'd talk. Just me and him. If I was hungry, he would split a Little Debbie oatmeal cream pie between us, and we'd giggle and eat and talk. Sometimes, though, he'd fix me a glass of milk, and make us each a slice of buttered toast. When we were done, he'd walk me back to my room, I would climb into bed, and he would say, "Goodnight, darlin'. I love you," and I'd go right to sleep.
Tonight, for the first time since he passed away nearly 13 years ago, I got up out of bed, restless and wanting a snack, and made myself a piece of buttered toast. I stood at the counter, eating and drinking a glass of milk, and all of a sudden I smiled. I felt him there. I spoke aloud and told him about my day. When I was done, I walked back to my room, climbed in bed and said, "Goodnight, Papa. I love you, too."
I might have toast every night.
