13 days to the end. I got up from my bed after I was woken up by some aroma wafting from the kitchen. It must be my father fixing breakfast.
The sizzling smell of frying sausages in the pan, the piquancy of baked beans boiling in the pot, the scent of slightly scorched toast popping up in the toaster, the irresistible fragrance of coffee pouring into the cups…It was another usual morning, I thought to myself.
The comforting smell grew stronger as I walked to the kitchen. Putting in front of me at the dining table was a platter of warm food and a cup of freshly brewed coffee prepared by my father. The same menu, same portion, same plating…nothing had changed much all these years, but I got dewy-eyed as I savoured every single bite and sip of it, as if it was the last meal of my life.
I couldn’t help myself smiling bitterly at how mediocre the food and coffee tasted despite having the same prepping almost every day since my mother was gone some years ago. But it was the taste that I would do anything…anything that I could…to savour more before my last breath…