Two pieces of bacon, not too crisp.
Two multi-grain pancakes, soaking up syrup as a breakfast sponge.
Heavy ceramic mugs of coffee, steam rising up, refilled over and again, lightened by little pots of white.
Story after story, tale after tale, of years gone by, of escapades and incidents, of tenderness and regret.
Could it be that one of our greatest fears is that our remembrances will cease to be heard?
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