I was at her place the day
she was making bread from scratch
her hair tied back,
the apron,
the flour on her hands,
the smudge of it on her forehead
where she had pushed her hair back,
her hands in the dough,
me handing her the sack of salt
she had asked for from the cupboard,
the scents all blended
in that kitchen
that morning

– I slept in fits & starts
for a long time after that
I could only watch the moon
from my window at night
and listen to the wind at the same time
and wonder
where it was all going
the summer I turned thirteen