Memories of Bread

Memories of Bread

Vilma Blenman

We’d try waiting for the cue,
try begging bread-thoughts to go away,
so irritable until Mama called us in.
Then we raced to the yeasty kitchen
where she’d cut the test loaf.
There was silence then, each one
given a slice of heaven, no more
grumbling, no side glances—only
gratitude for gifts of melted butter,
the soft flesh of flour and a mother’s
Monday bread-baking ritual.
Cleopas remembered reclining
at table that evening,
quiet after the crowds and city chaos
where he’d seen a man murdered,
innocent blood staining hill stones.
Two days later when walking back he’d invited
a fellow traveller in for a meal, knowing
his house was no inn, but the poor man—
where would he find lodgings after nightfall?
Cleopas watched their guest break open
the brown loaf with strong hands, saw
the two jagged pieces split like cliffs as
the man held them high, paused then
recited the ancient bread blessing
in tones reverberating like thunder:
Blessed art Thou …who brings forth
bread from the earth…
Cleopas then knew who the guest
holding the broken bread was.
But never afterwards could he
touch bread, taste bread
without seeing a stranger
needing a place to break bread.
Bread. I’ve read, all who take breath
make memories of bread.

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Vilma Blenman
Poet

Vilma Blenman is a poet who lives with her family in Pickering, Ontario.

Photography by Franzi Meyer