A Bouquet of Wild Flowers
Penny asked me to check the bread-maker
yesterday morning, which occasionally
has a tendency to not knead
the dough completely;
but I got lost deep in thought as I wrote
my daily poem (I blame Robert
Bly for this
addictive habit), and I forgot. I went to work
upon completing my poem
(Robert Bly does not
have a
day job to go to); but when I came
home for coffee, I smelled the
bread and remembered
what I was
supposed to do. I opened the
break-maker door expecting to
see a leavened loaf
nicely baking,
but instead my eyes beheld an
ugly lump of dough struggling
for its integrity, and
guilt possessed
me. I left the loaf to bake,
hoping some miracle would make
it rise; but just in
case the
God of Bread did not hear my prayer,
I stopped on my way home for
lunch and picked a
bouquet
of wild flowers. When I walked into
the house I heard
disappointment in Penny’s voice
as she called my name; but before she told me
about the bread, I handed her
the cheerful bouquet
and
said, “I forgot and I’m sorry and these are
for you.” Her face lit up with
love as it always does
when I
surprise her the way I do, and when she
left for work after lunch she
smiled and said to me,
“You’re
such a joy to live with. I’ll put on a
fresh loaf when I get home.”
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