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.