I won’t worry about my grown children,
or think about why I ache when I think of them.
Today I bake.
Inhale the frothy smell of yeast rising like magic.
Throw the dough on to the board, flour filling the air with clouds.
Wipe my hands on my apron then
put my shoulder into it,
Kneading. Kneading. Kneading.
My mother would kiss the dough and tell me as she formed it into buns, “Like babies’ bums”.
When I close my eyes I’m in her kitchen.
The smell of baking filling the house.
And then the timer chimes and I wait like a child,
impatient for the bread to cool:
My own mother now,
my own child.
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