Cereal

I needed cereal that day. It was cold and slightly rainy, like sifted cheese that only falls out every few seconds. Cereal reminded me of comfort. 

The milk was on the right side of the fridge inside the door, nudged in between other glass bottles and containers of fresh licks. I tugged upward and it flew up, making a soft clipping noise against the other bottles. I set it on the counter and blew air out of my mouth.

Milk is soft, caring, but harsh. As got out my pink porcelain bowl, I thought about cold. Chills on my toes and soft pools. Milk covers your eyes in silky fabrics. Cool. Slippery. 

The cereal was in the cupboard below the pretzels. The box shook around in my hand, and I rubbed my temples. Cereal was needed. 

Dry, delectable, mini bagels that taste like okayness. Meh. It's okay to be not okay. 

I poured the milk over the cereal, covering it in a cool, white sheet. My spoon was silver, a decoration of a clown on the handle. I shoveled it into my mouth with reverence. It tasted like the moon, spring rain, and contentment.