Bread

He would mix the yeast with sugar and warm water

Leave it covered overnight on the radiator

          “to let it grow.”

He would mix the ingredients never measuring once

“It’s too dry, or it’s too moist.”  It was never perfect.

And he would leave it covered overnight

          “to let it grow.”

I would want to touch it and he would threaten my curious

Hands with his big wooden spoon.

Then he would throw it down, punch it out of the bowl and

Knead his anger into the right size.

He loved his earthenware pots.

Did he oil them?

I don’t remember.

I do remember the smell that kept me from going to bed

Had me run down the stairs.

“I want the end.”

When it’s warm from the oven, it doesn’t even need butter

And it’s the only time I liked my father’s bread.

By  Stephanie Maziarz