BREAD AND ASHES

A shadow in a shadow land as
time goes on and memories fade
and you weather the years and
visit the graves, until your dream
falls asleep, too, and all that
remains of the ashes of winter
is the warmth you once gave.
A ghost, even then, in her faded
print dress, dusted with flour as
white as her hair, I used to sit at
the kitchen table and watch my
grandmother bake Sabbath bread—
a weekly miracle which I could
never fully comprehend. Her
wizened face glistened with
affection each time she glanced
in my direction. Her cloudy eyes
squinted for perfection as she molded
the mysterious dough and we listened
to phantom voices on the radio.

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