Bread
rising! The intoxicating smell of yeast. And bread fresh
from the oven. Someone loves me and has left warm bread.
When bread is broken, the life hidden within presents itself, a
thousand little holes, windows open for the first time. In one
booth near the window four old women are drinking tea. They are
dressed in old-fashioned clothes, layer on layer, suits and furs,
jewelry handed down for generations. One woman names the year of
her mother's birth, and another the day her husband died: his clothes
still hanging in the closet. They talk calmly, quietly, the
spring sunlight coming through the glass to touch the backs of their
hands. . . Sit down. Share this bread. As we talk you
can explain the ordinary things. I will play some music for you
that isn't mine.
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