a little

Every Saturday, from November to March, from as far back as he can remember until he was fourteen-years-old, he would tiptoe out of bed while the winter sky was still black and make himself two pieces of white toast with butter and sugar, turn the furnace up to eighty, sit with his feet over the heating vent, cover himself with an orange and brown afghan, and watch snow fall onto the three giant pine trees in the front yard. There was always snow. It was always quiet. And he could wrap myself in the smell of dustymetal furnaceheat and crispysweet butter. Safe and alone he would fill the silent slate of predawn with boondoggle dreams. And he would think himself cared for. And he would think himself loved. And he would think himself prince of a quiet moment. And he would eat his toast in circles - starting at the crust and working his way to the center - carefully aiming his course to ensure that the very last bite would always be perfect, as a child's yearning. A little toast. A little butter. A little sugar.