Mouth Full

At first taste, the richness of butter

followed by the persistent echo of

lemon, orange and rum. The tangy

labor of yeast. The grittiness of a

dry crumb, rich with golden yolks.

The story told with care each Easter

when the bread is made. Of my Nana,

of her passing, the loss of her recipe,

the patient harvest from the kitchens

of old women who were her friends,

their recipes all slightly different, with

directions that made our heads spin

       piece of yeast size of walnut

       oven not too hot

       bake till done

Each telling holds the memory of

years spent grating, kneading,

rising, waiting, hoping, and finally

       ...tossing...

inedible bread out into the

yard to waiting squirrels.

Behind it all

a small woman

named Caroline

who grew up in a house with

floors of hard packed earth

that were still carefully swept.

After many attempts and   

much trial and error, finally

      … b l i s s …

My father once again tastes

his mama’s Easter bread,

each bite a joyful visit

with a small woman

much beloved

much remembered

much missed.