Breakfast With Faulkner

Breakfast at Faulkner’s

It had been three hours since I arrived, up the long path through the formal gardens and promenades, anticipating our breakfast together-it was in Yakayakaonanona County, the site of the utter defeat of early Southern brevity by way of the patience borne of nothing better to do- (one may have wondered why, but it was too late for that now). We sat in the parlor as the dust motes floated, dancing in the lace-filtered sunlight, dust motes that had been raised and raised again even back to the tramping of the Confederate troops marching off in innocent eagerness to their spectral future. I thought I smelled coffee, reminding me of why I had come in such eager anticipation of a breakfast long forgotten but now remembered. “I’ll go see what’s keeping them,” he said.