Today I visited my daughter.

The bread maker.  I only have one.

That makes bread that is.

It is a relatively new skill and

I have been eyeing her offerings,

Watching as she has mixed and kneaded,

Nodding as she sighs over imperfections,

Smiling as I have tasted her baking,

 Knowing as only a bread maker knows  

That she is waiting for a sign of approval,

of entry into the sacred bread maker’s circle.

 

Now her Nana is a bread maker

Her bread is healthy and wholesome

Whole wheat.  

She taught me to be a bread maker

I thought nothing could compete…

Until today,

As I sat down to enjoy homemade crusty domed white

With a slab of butter…I told all at the table to

Be silent as I closed my eyes…almost a sacred moment.

Did she hold her breath?

I was transported in time to my Grandmother’s table

And I could almost hear her voice.

“A bit of blueberry jam would go well with that , dearie”

Yes Daughter, you have arrived. You may enter.

 

 

 

Spring 2013

Miss Spring is a darling, but most distracted.
I sauntered past her today. There she was, hunched over the table in the gazebo at the restaurant.
Examining the contents of her purse, doing spring cleaning? All spread out for display in giddy array.
I tried not to stare but it was difficult not to notice the bits of winter, the odd snowflake, crumpled tissue… probably used to wipe the tears of last year’s early cold...Remnants of autumn, an old Christmas program, various pressed flowers and one four leaf clover.

 She saw me observing as she applied a new spring lipstick to her lips, a glorious shade of cherry red. Stuffing her treasures back into her Gucci and raising a hand, she fluttered her fingers to the waiter. Spring had arrived for tea.