Tot Forgotten

 

It is cold and dark.  It feels like a large empty warehouse, so much so, that there is almost an echo.  I am alone.   There are no more sounds of a distant breakfast being made, only silence.  Did they not realize I was in here.  One forgotten Tater Tot in the bag.

Am I to be discarded with the trash?  Has it been my destiny all along to make it through everything, only to be overlooked at the last?  That somehow doesn’t seem a very fitting end.  I shall miss the sizzling sounds of frying bacon, hearing the sharp crack of eggs being broken and the amazing smell of special roast coffee.

There should be oboe music.