A Childhood Memory

Warm bread from our oven, stuffed in white wax bags, no ties
We sat on the back of the station wagon, laughing cries
Mom couldn’t see and we ripped one in half filling our bellies
So many aromas mingled and vowed to keep our lies

Sultry air in the market mixed scent and sweat reminding
Those who labor reap sweet rewards of their finding
Fields and ovens, all bake after kneading and plowing
And children’s lies all share in the mercy of a bleached sun blinding

 

dverse prompt is ‘market’. There are still a few and mostly on a Saturday, and sometimes I get to them, not often. My mother baked bread and delivered it to the open market. I helped her but always made sure I was rewarded! She would wonder out loud about being one loaf short, but probably just to let us know we were kidding no one.

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