I slid into the booth at the Country Kitchen and ordered French toast.
Because that’s what she would have done.
And, oh yes, the sausage links. We both thought the sausage at the “Kitchen” was special.
I looked across the table and raised my cup of coffee, sort of like a toast. She wasn’t there, but I whispered, “Miss ya Mom.”
And then I ate. And chewed on memory after memory.
Her hair always looked nice because our stop there came right after her weekly visit to the hair lady. On the way home, I’d always have to ask. “Should we stop for breakfast?” “I could eat,” she’d say. Or, “We can if you want.”
She always wanted to.
There wasn’t a lot of jibber-jabber. We just ate. (She always put one her links on my plate.) But we were together. And that felt good. And that’s why I was there. To be with her. Again.
It was overdue. She passed a year ago in February.
But that wasn’t the plan that day. I had a mission that put me on that road. The same road we took to that hair lady every week. As I rolled past the Kitchen, I felt the tug immediately. I knew I’d stop on the way back. A personal detour I had to follow.
Just as I knew I’d order French toast.
Some people go to cemeteries. They touch the gravestone, drop flowers or something personal. They say a few words. Somehow the Kitchen felt like a better place to be with Mom. She spent a lifetime in her own kitchen.
I chose to remember her across a plate of French toast, eggs over easy, and sausage links. And I did say a few words.
“Miss ya Mom.”
I’m Lonny Cain and that’s my perspective.