Making Bread With Grandpa

(Written during Poetry Workshop)


I was about nine
when I first made bread
with Grandpa.
I sat on the dishwasher,
amongst the loose flour,
as he kneaded the dough
and explained the steps.

This was all done from scratch.
The eggs' delicate shells
cracked open
letting the yoke slide
into the hole formed
in the floured mixture.

Once the dough was kneaded
and rolled
and the flour was,
yet again,
all over the floor
and my corduroy pants.
We placed the unleavened dough
into stainless steel pans
and set in the windowsill.

As the yeast took affect in the sun,
and the bread rose,
Grandpa told stories of his youth,
his past,
while Grandma told us
to clean up our mess.