A peaceful hum from her methodic mixer,
As secret tastes were twirled together,
Lured in her focused eyes.
With graceful fingers dusted in flour,
She massaged her homely masterpiece,
And pinched off bits for the smallest savor.
She squeezed the dough into a glass container,
Like a thick pale cloud eager to rise,
Pushed slowly into a steaming oven.
Time ticked on while heat waves danced,
The golden crust and bronze insides,
Flavoring the room with delicious aromas.
Carefully taking it out to cool,
She watched the bread stretch up for air,
Towards her stained, warm oven mitts.
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson2 days ago in Fiction
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