There I sat staring at something that I instantly recognized. Yet I couldn’t quite name it. I stared at this thing. It tried, as much as an inanimate object can, to trigger my memory. In the next few moments I felt an unexpected empathy for amnesiacs.

I laughed at myself as I stared at this flat, doughy bread. The nooks and crannies were cold and un-toasted. The fine granules on its back rolled onto my fingers as I held it this way and that. I cursed myself a fool.

Then, just as I flipped my egg onto it’s pockmarked surface, the thing hit my consciousness. English Muffin. It was a God dammed English Muffin! I laughed sourly, remembering the decade past, when I had last enjoyed one.

I sank my teeth into it, noticing that it was still cold, moist from storage, just past fresh. I could not remember a better English Muffin. I smiled in simple pleasure at this egg sandwich of mine, and the fresh memories it brought.

Memories that appeared like ghosts in the attic, stirred by the opening of old and dusty boxes. Snapshots of life so taken for granted as to barely warrant the space in which they sat.