WAFFLES
The heat emanating off of the toaster oven was comforting, providing a bit of warmth in the cool kitchen. Burning red elements reflected on to the surfaces of the two squares that sat on the tray, crisping them to a gentle brown. Within a minute the timer would ding and the elements would fade and the lonely squares inside would be ready for the addition of strawberry syrup and whipped cream.
They would be a pale imitation of the thick homemade batter that used to be poured into the waffle iron before being topped with fresh sliced strawberries. His stiff attempts were a shadow of the warm motherly caresses that lingered and soothed.
But this was what his son had requested for breakfast. When they were served on the plate, he ate them with a contented smile before obediently cleaning himself up and settling onto the sofa for morning cartoons. Twinkling eyes beckoned his father to join him.
Drawn by the memory of what had been lost and the promise of a future still unwritten, he returned the smile and settled onto the seat beside his son.
He was a pale imitation; but maybe, for today, he would be enough.