Last meal/First meal

I realized that choosing a last meal was going to be the last real decision I’d ever make. And I didn’t want to fuck it up. The more I thought about it the more confident I was that I wouldn’t be able to eat much and would certainly feel nauseous no matter what I requested. So I made aroma a key factor - if I wasn’t going to enjoy tasting it, I might as well enjoy smelling it. What always smells great and improves the day no matter what? Coffee. And what goes well with coffee? Breakfast.

Breakfast became the obvious choice. Of course. I am certainly no stranger to the breakfast-anytime philosophy. I love breakfast. A classic breakfast. Bacon, eggs, toast. Pancakes. Sausage. Homefries. Grits. And coffee. Can you smell it? Each item, its own delicious, enticing aroma.

Even if I don’t touch it…

Plus, breakfast, while a wonderful meal whenever, is always best in the morning. The first meal of the day and a promising beginning to it. Despite having a fairly good idea of where your day is heading while wiping up that last bit of egg and onion with your last slice of toast, this day could go a million different ways. It could be the best day of your life. And you’re ready for it after a satisfying Denver omelette with rye toast or Lumberjack. Or Pork Roll, egg and cheese on a toasted Kaiser bun with ketchup. Or anything from the goddamned Waffle House.

I went simple. I went Lumberjack.

It is served. I’d already been crying for hours. Who could sleep? They bring the meal to you. You don’t have to go to chow-hall or nothing. And I’ll give them credit - it's a quality plate. Thick-cut, crispy bacon, grill-marked sausage in an actual casing, a good crust on the slice of ham, glossy, bright scrambled eggs with peaks not plateaus, golden brown pancakes with lacy edges dripping with butter, and a Bunn carafe steaming with Jamacian Blue Mountain coffee.

I had chosen well. My tears wane for moment and I genuinely forget about things. About reality. I eat a rasher. The chew is perfect. I fork a chunk of egg. Like butter. I pick the edge off one of the pancakes. Crispy and slightly burnt. I pour a cup of the coffee in to the accompanying mug and smell it. Ecstasy. I take a cautious sip. I smile.

Over the next half-four I take small bites of everything and drink half the pot of coffee. I realize I didn’t specify real maple syrup and am subjected to Kraft maple syrup flavored topping. My last mistake.

When my stomach begs for no more coffee the guards cart my leftovers away. For a few minutes I am alone. I am warm from my meal. I am ready to face what the day brings.