It’s peaceful right now. Quiet. The world is in its summer sleep, and only a few cars are whizzing by outside. Even the birds and bugs are hushed now, not finding much worth chirping about. The pale peachy sun is rising, making its way to the sky, and I am breathing, enjoying the silence and this coffee, and forgetting the pain of the world.

Except I really want a breakfast taco. Or four. Bacon, eggs, potatoes, and cheese, on a warm homemade flour tortilla. Mmmmm. I’m drooling. There’s a taco stand down the street from my parents’ house, and they make such delicious tacos. That was always a summer staple when we got old enough to drive ourselves and bribe our mom. My brothers would usually go together, champion men that they are, and arrive home with bags of hot tacos, wrapped in foil, served alongside red and green salsa so you could set your mouth on fire to your heart’s content. Sometimes, they’d go back at lunch for the amazing chicken and beef tacos.

I want nothing more than to go grab twenty tacos from the stand, unlock the back door to my parents’ house, and sit with my family and eat some breakfast tacos. Pretend we’re all kids again for a moment. Pretend breakfast tacos don’t make you fat.

But my mom is away being fabulous at a writing conference. My older younger brother is working his grown up job in Arkansas, and my dad and baby brother have departed for a fishing trip. And I, of course, must batten down the hatches of my soul and go to work. We are scattered. I am scattered.

But it was a lovely dream. And this warm, quiet moment feels like home.

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