I wake up dreary with cinnamon tickling my nostrils. Stimulating all my senses are the sticky buns my mother woke up at the crack of dawn to hand-craft, as she does in ritual every Sunday morning. 

My legs struggle to keep up with my watering mouth, dragging me down the stairwell searching for the source of the sweet scent. 

Quickly I grab the largest bun while my mother chuckles, she has always made a few larger for me. 

Slowly biting down into the pillowy dough that is smothered with sugarey cream, the corners of my mouth lifting in their own response. 

I begin feeling the sweet sugar and cinnamon dissolve in my mouth, and soothing my throat with a splash of fresh cows milk. I go for a second bite while my mouth begins to water again... 

Then the sudden lurch of my body, the painstaking realization, the cold, damp room I woke up in, my reality. I look to see the pillow beneath my head is drenched with sweat and a circle from where I had been drooling. 

Sadness swept smoothly over my entire body and soul. Sundays were the best days, now they are my worst.