Sourdough toast with the perfect amount of butter.

It always tasted better at her house.

I remember sitting on her oversized velvet chair.

I would spin in circles, round and round and round, catching my reflection in the mirrored china cabinet full of all of her special treasures, stealing handfuls of trail mix from crystal dishes in between spins.

Round and round and round.

Only stopping when I would hear the alarm from the microwave.

The sound followed by the smell.

She would reheat her coffee all day. Her hands were always filled with a mug full of it and her home was always filled with the smell of it. I wanted so badly to like it. You know, because of her and her love for it. Every once in a while I would try it. I would take a sip and the stale bitter taste of reheated coffee would fill my mouth. I would become overwhelmed by it, only choking it down because I wanted to feel fancy and older like her.


Everything in her home was fancy.

From the crystal dishes filled to the brim with various treats that topped each table to the silk flowers that adorned every open surface.

I am reminded of that place as I sit and drink my coffee. Recalling her love of something that is now such a constant part of my day.

 Oh how I wish we could sit down with a steaming mug full of freshly brewed coffee and share life.

The stories I would tell her.

Of a life lived well, full of mistakes and triumphs, and tales of babies that are growing day by day.

She would meet the two babies that she never got to know.

Oh, how wild one would love her.

I can already see it, they would spend afternoons out on the porch singing their favorite songs.

She reminds me of her because of that.

Independent, wild, and free.

She doesn’t need anyone or anything to make her happy.

And she sings like no one is listening.

All of the greatest parts of her are now embedded in this little soul.

Baby boy would allow her to hold him.

He would steal her heart in just an instant, much like my oldest did.

It’s the eyes.

They pierce through you right to your very soul.

He’d steal her heart and she would steal his.

It’s funny how things bring you back.

Things like sourdough toast and a mug full of coffee.

Round and round and round, the memories just begin to flow.


PicMonkey Collage


13 thoughts on “Sourdough Toast and a Cup of Coffee.

  1. DeeDee

    Oh the tears are falling so very fast and I cannot stop them. Your memories are my memories…funny how that is. Thank you little one.


  2. Cindy

    Oh my…the tears did run this morning… those memories are not exactly like mine but close enough… I have never heated up so much coffee in all my life as when grandma Mary was with me and the babies. She was a beautiful lady and I think of her often. Blessings to have had her in our lives.


  3. Haili Hunter

    I found you through Casey’s link up. Yours caught my attention because, well, I love me some sourdough toast. I laughed when you mentioned butter. Because I love my butter nice and evenly spread over my bread. haha. I am not one that is very good at painting images in my head from words, stories, books etc. but you did such a great job and it was almost like I was spinning in a chair next to you. Lovely way with words, dear. :)


    1. Ashley Post author

      Oh haili! Your comment made my morning. So sweet. And yes, sourdough toast with the perfect amount of butter is like the best thing ever! So glad we share a love for it;)


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