Auntie has burned the Eggos again. We assume our positions on the floor in front of the television, legs hidden under plastic tray tables. The butter doesn’t melt because the waffles aren’t hot since she toasted all three pairs before serving them. Had she not, my brother certainly would have stolen mine rather than waiting. The price of hot waffles was too high, I knew. The plates adhere to a film of dried syrup from Saturday mornings past.

My sister rolls curlers into what’s left of my Uncle’s hair as he naps. My brother and I spill our enormous LEGO bin out over a sheet in the living room. We search through 62 lbs of assorted pieces for the monkey figure that came with the pirate set. I discover it and the perfect Saturday is achieved.

In 22 years Michelle will be pregnant with her second child, Chris will be recovering from a life of addiction while Ada and Sam will have been dead for over a decade.

When I grow up I want to serve my children waffles just to reclaim some of that magic.