I unwrap the cheese, peeling pack the plastic cellophane with glee.
Not quite glee but anticipatory joy.
I slather both sides of the bread with butter.
Lick my finger catching the small speck of butter.
I raise my head to look out of the window and see the cardinal snacking on the seeds.
Its tail jerking up and down quickly, fluttering as it turns its small body with each flutter.
The warm breath of Spring is marching up the long steps of Winter.
I place the slices of cheese onto the field of buttered bread then top it off with another buttered slice.
I watch the butter as it slides across the pan gently turning into gold.
I reach for the old spatula, the one that likes me but the one I love.
I wait …and then skoot the combination into the frying pan.
With certainty, I press down, savoring the smell of just burned butter.
The spatula covets the bread, holding it down long so the heat will melt all connections.
I crunch into it, letting the warm gooiness speak to me. I taste Spring.
The cardinal stops then darts away as a blue jay cascades from the sky.