Ode

Day two, I bake bread. Wake the sleeping sourdough from its chilly slumber, a starter that has crossed oceans and continents, expanded and contracted in breaths through the decades, give it life anew with nothing more than a soft, sandy flour and the warmth of water. Borrow my father's mixer, cherry pick milled grains from his collection, carefully balance ingredients, and time. Return to the dough through out the day, pulling and twisting at it, folding it into versions of itself that rise and fall over the course of an afternoon. Heat cast iron pots until they glow, fill the oven with steam, cut a most delicate arc into the boule and sprinkle it with monochrome seeds. A careful wait, an impatient gaze, the bread comes out of the oven smelling like what you've been told safety smells like, what comfort smells like, what home smells like. Wait yet again, counting minutes till the loaf is cool enough to touch, to set serrated teeth to its golden crust and slice through the airy innards. 

I paint the slice with a thick slab of yellow butter, sprinkle salt flakes from an ancient ocean, lay a thin layer of cheese on the top. Eating bread is something sacred, is something to reconnect you with a child you once were, reconnect you with ancestors who paved this way for you. I remember being five years old and getting freshly baked bread even though it was past bed time because these were the rules of freshly baked bread and your family didn't make them but your parents sure did abide by them. A softness on the tongue, a lowering of shoulders, a slowing of heart rate. 

With age we become so immune to wonder. 

But it is still there. You just have to open your eyes more, to see it.