An unfamiliar crunch–sharper than the toast–stopped my chew. A gentle prodding with my tongue found the culprit.
On the tip of my finger, between the bread bits and pulverized berries, stood a bit of curved red, speckled with black: a lady bug wing, in the jam, on my toast.
How sad that this strawberry, meant to be his home, caused his death and became his tomb.
I brushed off my fingers and finished my toast, making a mental note to avoid that brand of jam in the future. The breakfast table shouldn’t be interrupted with such morbid musings.