Written by Ken Tomaro

That pinnacle of perfection? Hands down, no thought required, as sure as I’ve ever been sure of anything in life. It’s not love. Love comes and goes. Love can destroy your fragile psyche in seconds flat. It fades. It burns like the flames of hell. It’s a tease, a roller coaster, and some of us don’t have the stomach for that kind of thrill and excitement.

It ain’t people either. People also come and go… some shit all over you and run off, spraying everyone in their path. Some people stick around just long enough to get cancer, and then they disappear, too.

Hands down, I put my money on a piece of rye bread, lightly toasted. Not thrown in a toaster but seared to perfection on a flat-top grill, lots of butter. Not too dark. Not too light, but just to the point the rye bread soaks up that pool of butter and creates a nice crusty surface in the process.

When love smolders to a pile of ash, when you have made your last friend, when your car overheats on the side of the road, when your memory of a loved one fades, when the lottery winnings run out, when the vacation ends, when the beer doesn’t go down as smooth anymore, when a mental health day isn’t enough or even sometimes a mental health year, when you’ve made it or simply just gotten by, when your legs fail, when retirement comes, that piece of rye bread toasted on a flat-top grill with lots of butter will be every bit as fucking delicious as it was the first time to tried it.

when death comes for a visit, present to him or her, a piece of buttered rye toast, and he or she may just leave you alone for a little while longer.

Text © Ken Tomaro