As the first rays of sun began to shine through the cracked, grimy window, I began to rub the sleep from my eyes. It took me a minute to realize how frigid the room had become overnight from the combined efforts of the cracked window and the subzero temperatures of Oswego, New York in the winter. I shivered and wrapped a blanket around myself. That's when I heard the sound of my name being called from somewhere in the house. It was my mother beckoning me to go eat breakfast. I arose taking the blanket with me and made my way across the dusty, wooden floorboards of my bedroom. As I walked, my bare feet cringed at the touch of the cold floors. I tried not to pay much attention to it. Walking down the stairs, I could smell the sausage my mother was cooking. A smile crept across my face as I walked down the stairs in my Sunday morning best; a pair of ninja turtles pajamas and a tattered, woolen blanket. Each stair creaked, making a different noise every time, a squeaky symphony of wood under my cold, bare feet. I walked through the kitchen archway to see my mother setting out breakfast for the two of us. It had been just her and I for a while now. I had no siblings, and my dad died about two years back. In all honesty, I loved breakfast with my mom. We would talk about all kinds of things, but what I liked most was the food. My mom was a chef at a local restaurant, so even breakfast was always exciting and delicious. I miss those days. I miss the cracked window in my room. I miss the squeaky floorboards. The thing I miss the most is breakfast with mom. Nothing can bring back those happy days in my childhood. Even now, as an adult, waking up in my frigid bedroom, sometimes I can still smell mom's breakfast in my lonely apartment.
