Toast

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In the morning my mom will make
Toast.
Before I know it I can hear
The bread being put into the toaster, the
Spring going down a little by the weight.

She gets out the butter, a drawer opens and
The silverware jingles to find a knife. A
Couple plates are brought down from the
Cupboard.

The smell wafts through the air, up the
Stairs, under my door and through the
Cracks into my room. It smells good and
I can tell which bread it is. Potato bread, my favorite.

I get out of bed, and open the door. I hear the
Toast pop up. My mom spreads the butter
And the crunch of the bread is music
To my ears.

I silently sit in the chair by the table, and
I wait for the plate to come my way. My mom
Turns around and smiles when she sees me. Placing
The plate in from of me, I smile and thank her.

When I pick up the bread, it was hot, and
The butter was melted. It smells good. I can’t
Wait to take a bite. I bring it close and open
My mouth. The toast touches my tongue then I bite down.

The crunch is amazing, an explosion of crumbs go flying
In my mouth that it feels like fireworks.
The taste of the bread and butter was what I was waiting for.

Jelly was put in front of me. My moms asked if I want any.
But why would I want to mask the taste of the best thing to happen to bread?
It is just fine without having to cover it up.

Finishing up the last piece of toast, I was sad.
But I would wait till the next day to get more. Without jelly.
Just old fashioned butter spread on.





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