I rarely get taken out by what’s happening.

It’s what’s left behind that gets me.

The residue.

The crumbs.

The smell.

A toaster has one job:

turn bread into toast.

Every time, something sheds.

Crumbs fall.

No betrayal.

No disaster.

A price paid for transformation.

I’ve pulled the tray out before,

stared at what’s left.

Made a whole story out of it.

Focused on what’s missing.

Look at what broke.

Look at what I lost.

That’s how I’ve lived.

Fixated on what fell apart.

Blind to the bread still in my hands.

Hungry but staring at the tray.

Then I wake up, try again.

New day, fresh start.

Drop in the bread, push the lever down.

Hoping this time it won’t shed.

Hoping for clean.

Hoping for perfect.

That’s not how toast works.

That’s not how life works.

The smell?

It’s not fire.

It’s yesterday’s crumbs burning off.

Leftover fear.

Old guilt.

Grief I never let smoke out.

I used to hear the alarm and panic.

I uncovered a better question:

What is here?