Frosty Flakes

I ate the Frosty Flakes, dry, out of the box, and listened to the speaker. I wasn’t anywhere near turning into this person who droned on and on about Part D Medicare. Instead, I was on the porch, on a small island, the sun shining, and Dad was still alive-eating Frosted Flaes with sliced bananas-trying to get to the sugar bowl to make it sweeter. No, Dad, I said, like an indulgent schoolmarm. He loved his sweeted and his breakfast and I loved him. I was his caretaker, his daughter, and how far we’d come, the two of us. To this place and to days that started with “Frosty Flakes,” as he called them.

~storySouth, March 25, 2019

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