Dad was cleaning the gutters when he slipped off the ladder, fell, and broke his neck.
After the funeral, Mom thought Dad’s soul was in the toaster.
“He never did like wheat bread,” she said, as the toast popped up burnt again.
“You have it on the bagel setting, Mom,” I said, but she ignored me.
She’d stay up late, talking to it.
And sometimes went to bed with it.
“I’ll just have cereal,” I told my mom, eyeing the toast and butter suspiciously.
I get the milk from the fridge, which is my Grandmother, and close the door gently.