The creaky wood floor always gave you away.
“Is that you, son?” my father would say, unwaveringly, seeking the reassurance of a worried parent.
“Yeah, it’s me. Go back to sleep.”
My room sat near the end of the hallway, past the print of a Picasso and a half-dozen steps from the bathroom.
It was a house-length away from the kitchen, but the sweet smells of breakfast always wafted back to where I slept.
Sunday breakfast might have been the biggest meal of the week at the Morgans.
Mom donned an apron, pulled the cast-iron skillet from the cabinet and the feast was on.
Biscuits and milk gravy. Patty sausage or bacon. Eggs cooked to order. And my dad insisted on fried potatoes.
I remember watching the way my mom stirred the gravy and flipped the grease on the fried eggs, particularly mine, whose yolk had to be rock-hard. I still can hear the sizzle of the potatoes as they darkened in the pan.
The memories taste so good.