I think it must have been cold. I remember huddling up close inside myself that morning you made me eggs.

I hovered on a metal stool above what used to be a white tile floor, and you stood over the stove with your back in a crooked question mark -- you were always too tall for any major appliances, much less me. I remember my eyes darting between the ground and your blue sweater. I remember finding your eyes from glance to glance, tired and sparkling and dark-circled above your smile, when you would turn from the burner to me.

You and all the others invited me over to spend the night ... I think you must have seen the ways that I was hurting without him there and tried to take me in like a new-found family.

I don't remember if it worked or not, what you were trying, dear.

...But I do remember the fluffiest, warmest eggs I'd ever eaten, and you trying to work the french press (unsuccessfully) to make us coffee. I remember heavy cream, and a quiet bus-ride in to school before the sun rose.

I think it must have been cold, but somehow I can't be sure. Faint memories keep persisting, telling me it was the warmest that I'd ever known breakfast could be.