like a soft wave

it wafts

through the front door


we’d say

we could smell it

a block away


but truly

we only knew

right before

(or was it as soon as)

we opened the door


mom was baking bread again

and bread dough meant




fresh cut chunks of dough

dropped into spitting hot oil

browning up crusty

on the outside

soft and delicate

on the inside

so hot

we’d pick them up

only to drop them

in order to

blow on our fingers


then dipping them

into thin brown sugar

and butter syrup

mom prepared

for the occasion


such a treat

such a delight

such a wonder


our mom


taking something

as simple as

bread dough

in oil

to tickle the delight

of her children






death and resurrection

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