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.