Breakfast in Bed

The door busted open and in walked my Grampa. He had apparently kicked his way in, his hands balancing a tray of steaming plates. The scent of cinnamon and honey and corn and tomato soup filled the room. My tummy purred.

“Here you go, sweetheart, just what the doctor ordered.”

I just lay there under my blanket, staring at him. Did I swallow my tongue? Was someone drilling on my temples? I realized I was shivering, yet my back felt cold and wet. I could hardly keep awake but I dared not close my eyes.

Grampa died two years ago.

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*Writing prompt, (“The door busted open and in walked…”) courtesy of Promptly Written.

 

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