Expecting Him Home That Day in Some Kind of Recovery

I resorted to hippie-ism and all that

morning I baked bread.

The dough puffed up like a big pliant sponge,

alive and rising in the warm kitchen sun.

 

I let my hands guide me through shaping loaves

then rolling out and up into crescents,

sprinkled and smeared with butter and

sugar and raisins, sliced thick

and laid loosely in buttered pans;

they baked to a worthy product,

doubled again in size and lightly browned.

 

When cooled, the glaze would be drizzled

into ribboned hieroglyphics, the DNA-looped

swirls of mother love.

Secret messages from ancient bakers

coded the delicate rolls.

 

The scent of their baking filled the house for

hours and hours. When he arrived, my little dog and I

cried; and he, happy to be so missed, commented

on how good it smelled. Both of us dismissed

the memories that might have haunted us, the times when

the dog did not do flips of joy, when

I had nothing beautiful I could do or say.

 

 

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About merimeemilhaupt

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