Jen made me some cream of wheat for breakfast this morning, and it made me think of childhood weekend mornings when Dad would make us breakfast; I preferred his cream of wheat to his eggs. He’d load a bowl full for each of us and make a little island volcano in the center: butter in the cone, brown sugar on the land, surrounded with some milk. The way the flavors mix always felt like a warm hug, even when we knew he was preparing us for hours of cold dreary manual labor outside.

I miss you, Dad.