Campfire Breakfast

I wrote this for my Papa, my Grandfather on my Mother's side. I hope you enjoy it...

It is morning, and birds are chirping in trees that shiver in frosted air.
The smell of campfire, sweet and ashy, wafts through this small dwelling place.
I throw off the patchwork blanket of memories and warmth,
my bare legs prickle with gooseflesh
while my fingers gently part the hand made curtains from the small window.
Voices mixed with laughter and long pauses between sips of coffee- black and hot,
become muffled by this house on wheels.
I quickly throw on my faded gray sweatpants, my mustard yellow t-shirt,
and my cherry red jacket…faded sneakers finish this honsomble.
I turn the latch, pushing,
the door parts and the fingers of chilled air crawl across my face causing my nose to redden.
The smell of rich coffee, bacon, eggs, and biscuits causes my stomach to cry out.
Sitting, eating breakfast, I watch the familiar faces around me.
I know them like I know the creases of my hand.
My eyes fall on my "Papa",
His baseball cap pulled snug between his ears, hiding the slight bald spot on the back of his head.
His stance is slightly bent by age,
His gentle eyes, his handsome face, those strong hands creased by age
poking at the fire with his special stick, making sure that it was perfect.
His accent and laughter still tremble on me…what sweet memories.