Cinnamon would waft through
The kitchen as soon as the leaves
Began to Journey away from their homeland
And found a new home in the soil beneath
The mighty oak that had raised them.
Mama would compare me to a leaf every
Autumn as she kneaded the dough,
Flour turning her hair white.
She’d tell me I’d leave my homeland
One day and go on to find better things.
I’d respond the same way each time
As I placed the dough in a bowl.
I told her I wouldn’t want to live
In the dirt; that’s where worms lived.
And I am not a worm.
She’d laugh, shaking her head
As she’d wipe excess dough
On my face, telling me that
I’d one day change my mind.
I didn’t think so.
My favorite part of making
Bread was watching it rise.
Mama liked it to.
We’d sit beside the oven,
Giggling until the clock would chime.
Comparing a child to leaf
Was a rather cliché metaphor,
But even then I wasn’t able
To understand the impact
That it had on how I perceived things.
Every time I pass a mighty oak,
I’d smell the cinnamon wafting
Through Mama’s bakery,
And I’d feel the dirt pass my hip,
Sinking into the ground to start again.