7:00 am

He sat in the kitchen beside the window. The sun came streaming radiantly onto the table's surface in front of him while he sipped his morning coffee out of his "fly-tying" mug. His right, shaky hand was holding a cigarette between two long tar-stained fingers. He sat on the old, white-painted wooden chair, staring out the window into the half-grown vegetable garden.

He always sat across from the door. He had all he ever needed right in front of him; his tubes, his tub of tobacco, his ashtray, his pile of loose change and his cup of coffee, which he drank blank.

He turned his head from the window to face my entrance from the living room.

"Good Morning." He spoke in the cheerful voice he always used first thing in the morning.

Although a cloud of smoke surrounded him, I could sense his deep mahogany eyes as they smiled. His face was young and had just begun to wrinkle. Thin crow’s feet creased the skin in the corners of his eyes, and lines ran across his forehead from frequent overthinking. His dark brown hair touched his shoulders at the back, sticking out in wisps around his ears. Bushy eyebrows and unkept whiskers framed his naturally tanned face with a mixture of black, brown, red and even a few specks of grey.

His teeth had rotted from years of frequent drinking and were stained the same yellow as his slender fingers. Although his appearance was slightly distraught, his friendly face captivated anyone who crossed his path.

He was an average size man, standing around six feet tall. He was slim but had good muscle definition throughout his chest and biceps. While he sat in the sunlight, he wore an old red and white beater and a pair of blue briefs. Two thin legs covered in a blanket of hair, stretched out underneath the table, the left crossed naturally over the right. His long boney feet were bare and mechanically shook while he put out his smoke and reached for his tubes to roll himself another, setting it to the side of the table by the windowsill.

"Would you like some breakfast?" He asked happily, willing to make it for me.

I looked at him and smiled, "Yes, please."

He didn't have to ask what I wanted to eat or how I liked my eggs cooked. He knew I liked my bacon slightly chewy, not crispy, and my runny egg placed onto my toast. He rose from the table, grabbed his stained, overused mug and proceeded to top it up with the thick black Folgers at the bottom of the coffee pot.

When the bacon was sizzling and spitting in the frying pan, he stood over the stove, whistling a tune through what remained of his back teeth. He whistled the same measure every morning. The smell of daybreak poured out of the kitchen, filling the walls of our small, half-renovated cabin.

He seemed so content and pleased to make me my breakfast. He always did. His whistled carried on through cracking open an egg, frying it, seasoning it and flipping it with care and perfection so as not to break the yolk. Finally, after placing my meal onto my plate for me to enjoy, he seated himself back at the table.

"Is it good?" He'd ask before bringing the previously rolled cigarette to his lips.

"Mhmm hmm," I managed to say through a mouthful.

Content with the morning, I watched as he lit the cigarette with his favourite green lighter and turned once more to face the sun and the half-grown vegetable garden.