We can begin again, we can start anew. It’s springtime and the flowers are blooming everywhere. A fresh start. A new season. We have the joy from the surprise from not knowing what’s in store. We can forgive ourselves for the chances we threw away and forget the bad times that once held sway.
Time for something new. Let’s make bread.
Weighing the flour and sifting it, kneading the dough and beating it into shapes, into lovely moulds for our heart’s innocent desires, our quiet wishes. We whisper into our bread as it cracks open, its steam and hidden aromas bursting like heartstrings, like dams, like battering rams, and even as we move to wipe the tears from our eyes, there is a hand there already, gingerly leaving fingerprints on our powdered cheeks.
We spread fresh hopes onto our bread and we share them, together.