grandfather’s toast

This burned toast sat on the sidewalk like a spent cigarette. No window nearby to toss it from. No reason to toss it from a window.
When I was young I can remember the smell of burned bread. I then recall the scraping sound of a butter knife sliding down toast coming from the kitchen. My grandfather, who happened to be blind, would either forget his bread in the toaster or prefer it well done.
There are few memories of my grandfather. He died when I was just old enough to cry and young enough for time to have erased years. It’s amazing how a burned piece of toast on the sidewalk can bring someone back.