I am mother.
If I don’t have
time,
I will make time.
I will form it with
my hands like
bread.
I will add yeast.
Filling your childhood with
air so you can
breathe.
Then we wait.
I know. You want
to go faster
because it feels
too long.
But instead of
rushing we will
knead every last
dollop.
Folding in
memories.
Emptying the
cupboards of the
world.
Sprinkling your
days with raisins
and cinnamon,
honey and seeds.
And yes, we will
taste everything.
Twice.
Lick the spoon
clean.
All too soon you
will feel the
warmth, telling you
to rise.
We will stand
at the oven, a
moment of
hesitation.
I will hold on too
long and the heat
will burn my
fingers.
Blisters and tears,
but don’t worry. I
will let you go.
When that day
comes the smell of
hot bread will
follow you.
It will taste as good
as a promise kept.
And then you
will go make time.
Leave a Reply