“When and where do you do your best thinking? In the bathroom? While running? Just before bed, or first thing in the morning? On the bus? Why do you think that is?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us THE BEST.”
Eli felt the weight of the cold sinking into his body. His feet, his shoulders, his face, his arms. He had bundled up as tightly as he could knowing that the blankets would eventually fall off as he tossed and turned while in a deep, unknowing sleep. Always a heavy sleeper, his blankets somehow wondered. To the side of the bed, to the bottom of the bed, to the floor. It was a cold wintry morning, but he could smell it. Something made him want to get out of bed despite the cold. He decided that it would be enough to make it worth getting out of bed, if only he could find the sock that had fallen off his right foot. The cold was blasting onto his toes.
He pushed his covers off and found it, at the foot of his bed. He pulled it onto his feet, struggling a bit, slowly mustering up the will to place his feet on the floor. He wished there was a fire in his floor, but there wasn’t. And then he smelled it, again, what made it worth getting up out of his bed.
Down the hallway. Down the steps. He slowly walked. He was the first out of bed, and he couldn’t wait. He crept down the stairs quietly, not sneaking, but happy to see what he would.
His grandmother greeted him quietly, with a smile.
“Good morning, Eli.” She was standing in the kitchen with her favorite floral apron. Grandmother couldn’t cook without her floral apron. White, orange and green, with curvy lines, it was how he would always remember her. Grandmother, her wooden spatula and her floral apron.
The bacon was frying with grease simmering.
“I made them just how you like, Eli.”
She slid the scrambled eggs onto a plate next to a biscuit. He loved how the warm butter melted so quickly on the bread.