Breadbaker

It is Sunday morning and
my father is up early baking bread
His strong rough hands delving into dough,
kneading it with careful and quiet deliberation
The house is empty allowing a silence to settle
as I, small and determined,
have again lost the debate over
the necessity of Sunday's service

But my father's dark and heavy hands knead dough
in the kitchen in his own ritual.

Early morning light filters in
as the terra cotta bowl allows the dough to
rise over its lips
and my father sips coffee from a mug
once belonging to some ancient hotel room
and that is just as heavy as his hands,
as impenetrable

I return,
one hand in my mother's,
the other already tugging at the lace of my Sunday best,
and find my home smells of a warmth
and a comfortable familiarity that I am too young to articulate

...

My father still sits cast in steel at the kitchen table
sipping coffee from his stalwart mug
but my Sundays home are rare,
and I am too old to believe in redemption from weekly masquerades

And my father's hands,
leaden and weary in tireless domestic rest,
no longer bake bread.