It is this time of the summer when I begin to feel ready for the winter. Last night, though not too hot, I still craved the breeze to cool, allowing my skin to roughen with goosebumps as the air washed over it like a wave. Only then can I slither into bed, blindly reach and grab all the layers below me, haul them up to my ear until all is quiet and I am a happy little bear in my den. Only then can I wake in the morning to the most marshmallow-y cloud above and below, squishing my skeleton just enough to make me feel as though I am being hugged.
These are the days of tea. These are the times for fires. These are the periods of dark where all must find their own, inner light.
In short, these are the true times for grilled cheese.