Memory of His Mother
He was a 92-year-old man in a retirement home.
Just lying-in bed waiting for the end
staring out the window watching the sunrise
He suddenly sat up and said that rising sun.
Reminds me of my mother, I remember.
She was always baking bread.
And had a big bright yellow bowl on the table
The color of the sun it was always filled with dough
warming to rise.
I can still smell that wonderful bread baking.
In that old wood stove,
it filled our home he said,
and raised our spirits.
Everyone was anticipating
the cutting of the bread.
A ritual my mother goes through
whenever she made bread
probably to entertain us.
And then the old man said no more
And fell asleep, remembering his mother
and all that bread a life well spent.
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