Panera

In the bread house, I see, and hear a family of four break bread together. The knee-high son, sits under the mother's armpit, and 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, that he sings completely indiscernible lyrics of a song he either learned in daycare, or from some bizarre, unidentifiable species on television. The dad occasionally helps calm the baby down: occasionally. The mom is content. She eats. She consoles. She feeds. She eats. She is their moon; she keeps them on a fixed orbit.