Bread

         One thing about baking bread is that it makes the whole house smell so good.  Another is the working of the dough, the pounding, manipulating, shaping it into the shape of your choice.  You don’t get to do much of that in this life, shaping things to suit you. 

         Mollie took the loaves from the oven, beautiful rounded tops, just the right shade of brown.  She unwrapped a stick of butter and rubbed it over the hot crusts watching it melt into the goodness. 

         Baking bread gave her a kind of satisfaction, doing this thing women have done in their kitchens for thousands of years, breathing the fragrance, making nourishment for families.

         Setting her finished work to cool she went up to the bedroom. There it was not so peaceful.  The walls seemed to echo Alan’s shout from their morning argument.  The thing he said just before he left the house, angry.

         Was he right? Was this whole thing a mistake?  Their whole life together, from the git-go, a mistake?  How could he say that?  Was their life really that bad for him?

         Almost time for him to be coming home.  Would he even come home today?  Did he have time to think about things and stop being angry?

         The car came into the driveway.  The kitchen door opened and slammed shut. She heard the thud as he set down his tool box.  She knew he smelled the bread and saw the loaves.

         Was he sorry or was he still angry?  She went to meet him.  He stood in front of her holding out a handful of buttercups.

         “I’m sorry.”

         “Me too.  Let’s have some bread and honey.”



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