Table for One

Breakfast for One

Maggie stared out the window. It would not be long until she could enjoy her breakfast. She just had to wait for the water to boil.

And there it was. The tea kettle's whistle assaulted all four rooms of the cottage. She moved to remove it from the stove, deftly maneuvering through the stacks of bundled newspapers, empty cat litter boxes, and flattened half-gallon milk cartons. Her skirts softly swished around her ankles, the fabric flaring out to touch the stacks like an author with a compulsive tic.

The shrill whistle gave way to a gentle gurgling. As Maggie poured the water over her oatmeal, her skin warmed. Her hand shook only slightly. She wanted this meal as much as she needed it.

She placed the teapot on a decorative trivet on the counter and then took her bowl to the kitchen table. Moving the orange and white tabby from the only chair not occupied by piles of laundry, she settled onto the seat and smiled, the bowl of oatmeal in front of her.

Maggie bowed her head and said a prayer, then opened her eyes and took stock of the jars before her. The containers held varying amounts of fine grey powder with bits of hard chunks mixed in. The dust clung to the inside of the jar, like the inside of an etch-a-sketch toy.

Henry? No. Malcolm? Hrm, he was yesterday's choice. Patrick? Oh yes, she hadn't enjoyed Patrick's company for some time now.

By this time Maggie's hand could barely hold the spoon. She dallied long enough, and needed her oatmeal. With great effort to hold her hand steady, she spooned out a heaping amount of the cremated remains, sprinkled them atop her oatmeal, and stirred.

The first bite was a little bitter, so she also added some brown sugar.

An hour later Maggie sat on the front porch swing, the tabby resting in her lap.