Written by: Bernadette Langer

she stood there, lost  
pounding dough smooth
with small hands,
an uncomplicated task;

her mind, reaching through veils 
trying to grasp moments.

but thought was fleeting,
and memory seemed to exist 
only in the mundane.

the only image changing 
was the one in the window 
in front of her; 

as she placed bread in a hot oven 
and hoped the scent alone
would call all those 
she'd somehow forgotten