I was in elementary school during the last, sad years of my parents’ marriage. We had moved out of New York City to Westchester and lived on a street that was more country than suburban. I had a friend named Kevin who lived up the road in a big, dilapidated house. He kept a water-logged copy of Hustler under the front porch–my first glimpse of pornography. Next to the house was an enormous barn. They had horses and Kevin’s mother and his sisters gave riding lessons in a big rink next to the house. The father had recently died.

I remember being inside that house wondering, What happened? Kevin’s mother was polite, looked respectable, and went to work in the City. But the house was a mess. It smelled of cat urine. There were cats everywehre. It was cold in winter and the floors were covered with newspapers soaked with cat urine and covered with cat shit. I navigated the upstairs corridors in fear, quickly moving to Kevin’s room, which had a small TV where we once watched ABC’s Monday Night Baseball.

It was as if after Kevin’s father died, everything fell apart. At least that’s how I imaged it as I lived in dread that my parent’s marriage would not last.

There were only two smells that cut through the stench. One was the sweet smell of shampoo in Kevin’s sister’s feathered hair. It could have been perfume too. They listened to rock records, wore tight jeans and seemed so grown up. All they had to do is pass by and the air was cut by a rush of their wonderful and mysterious femininity. The other came from the kitchen. It was a cold room too and the fridge always seemed bare. There, Kevin would toast a few slices of white bread, spread them evenly with butter and then shake equal parts cinnamon and sugar on top of them.

His cinnamon toast was reminder that even when life is filled with disappointment, and seems to be caving in around you, when there is no money for indulgences, there can be something simple and satisfying that keeps you going.