Panera 2

In the bread house, I see, and hear families break bread together. A knee-high son, sits under the mother's armpit; dad sits across from her. The baby sits in a high chair, seemingly the only one aware that he's the head of the table. He pounds his fist, when the morsels don't come fast enough from his mom's fingers, to his mouth. The knee-high son is so happy, he sings indiscernible words of a song he either learned in daycare, or from some bizarre, thing on television. Dad sometimes helps calm the baby down: sometimes. The mom is content. She eats. She consoles. She feeds. She eats. She is their moon; she keeps a fixed orbit.