On Possessions

I woke for work at my normal time, early. Stumbled in the dark until I reached the kitchen and flicked on a light. Opened the pantry door, took out the box of Honey Bunches of Oats and set it on the counter, then made my way to the cabinets and got a bowl. My mind thinks in sentences like this when I first wake up. I filled my bowl with cereal and turned to open the fridge for the milk. It was at that exact moment – when my fingers made contact with the bumpy plastic handle on the gallon container – that I remembered a conversation my five-year old son had with me a few days ago.

“Dad?” he begins, “You know how you sometimes eat my cereal and drink all the milk?”


“Could you please stop doing that.”

He said it as more of a sentence than a question.

I  poured the milk into my bowl of borrowed cereal and pondered the thought. Your thirties are supposed to be the time of your life when you feel the most financially secure (so I’ve heard) but I don’t even own the cereal I eat in the morning.

I can get away with sneaking it. As long as I leave enough for one more bowl.

One man's nostalgic look at being a dad


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