As a child,
I craved the warm crust
of my grandmother's bread,
sticky-gummed and butter-handed,
tearing apart the loaf with young fingers.
As a woman,
I returned with steady,
flour-ready palms,
aching to hold the lines faded in her cursive,
hear the rhythm of her measuring spoons,
and walk her mornings as my own.
“A lot of work goes into it,”
she sighed
as if I were still that hungry child
licking her sugar-crusted table.
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 4:40 PM UTC
As a child,
I craved the warm crust
of my grandmother's bread,
sticky-gummed and butter-handed,
tearing apart the loaf with young fingers.
As a woman,
I returned with steady,
flour-ready palms,
aching to hold the lines faded in her cursive,
hear the rhythm of her measuring spoons,
and walk her mornings as my own.
“A lot of work goes into it,”
she sighed
as if I were still that hungry child
licking her sugar-crusted table.
