Cold milk and warm bread

It is early morning at the end of RAG week. I have slept a few handfuls of hours over many days.

Someone brings me an ice-cold litre of milk. And a bread straight from the oven - so hot that it burns my hands.

And I have the best breakfast of life.

Through gulps and handfuls, I learn that someone knocked at the back of a bakery that was still closed. She sweet-talked them into selling her the milk and bread.

I remember that breakfast.
I do not remember the someone that made it happen.

And I feel deeply sad that I missed the importance of that moment. And many moments since.

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