Breadcrumb #614

BRIANNE KERR

When I was young I used to sit at the foot of the wooden rocking chair in my living room, empty,
and reach underneath the seat for the horizontal wooden bar. I would push and pull that bar, up
and around, making the chair rock, but I would pretend I was kneading bread, a task I saw only
in fairy tales, but I was sure that it would be like this, a rhythmic slow wave, with just enough
resistance to feel something. My parents would see me and worry about pinched fingers. Now,
older, on some Sundays I bake bread that I have yet to perfect enough to share and I don’t even
own a rolling pin so instead I run my fingers through its viscous flour and water and I go again
and again, fold and flatten, up and over, a sloppy ballroom dance in a kitchen neither cottage
nor palace, just here, and when I see the clock it usually tells me I’ve gone for too long.

• • •