Bacon

It’s raining in the A—

And yet life is happening at 10:30 this morning.
The steady flow of traffic Atlanteans are so used to hasn’t failed us this Saturday.

The cold front has brought cool, misty air with it. One of winter’s last kisses.
Like a precious one given me by my Gran — both of us blissfully unaware it would be one of her last.

My house smells like bacon. I pulled the leftover four pieces out of my freezer.
“Today is the day you are delicious,” I thought.

I wonder if the bacon thinks, “I’m always delicious, honey. I’m just not always cooked.”

Bacon smells like hope to me.

Think about it — whenever you walk into a space and smell bacon, it wells up this state of peace.

People laughing over brunch and mimosas.
Meme’s kitchen.
A roaring hotel buffet in London.
A beach house among friends.
Mom’s skillet on the fireplace during a power outage.

Bacon smells of hope.

The hope that even rainy, traffic-laden Saturday mornings hold a place for each of us.
The hope of good things.

That’s what I think.