memories

December 3rd, 2022

In dark slumber, a young child is awakened by the rush of wind like a raging river by the window. Days before the sun burned bright and blankets balled up on the floor, too warm to wear. Change has come. Icy breath seeps through the windows and the floor has turned to cavern stone, carpet like frosted moss. The child would have stayed wrapped tight if it were not for the pain in their belly and the smell of baking bread dancing down the hall.

The bread is a distant memory. The chill has come, gone, come again many times. The child is child no more, laying in bed wrapped in blankets.

Gone from awaking to welcoming smells, to rising in stillness before the birds. The cold stove is theirs to warm, the dough to knead with stiff hand.

As it bakes, the smell invites memories.

© 2022 Austin Lochan Dodd