I laid myself down as a woman / And woke as a child. / Sleep buried me up to my chin, / But my brain cut wild. – Anne Stevenson, “Innocence and Experience”
First they came for the bread. Papa baked the bread every morning and Mama did the croissants. You could smell the aroma of the bakery all the way down the street to the cemetery. It was the first thing most folks noticed when they got up in the morning.
Then they came for the beets and carrots. Out back the vegetable garden made hearty roots that kept the stew pots on our street even when rations were running short. Simmered over a hot stove with onions and potatoes from the cellar, they made a good meal for the children and the old ones who were sick.
Finally they came for the laughter. All day long we told the stories of my parents and their parents, of the liveliness of my grandmother’s wit and the talent of my grandfather’s artistry. It was a celebration. It was the one thing we had of our own.
Inspired by your piece, “A soul stolen by innocence“
By the same author: Taking my words for a walk
Guest Post by Theresa Barker from Lab Notes
|I have been writing science fiction and literary novels and short stories for about twenty years. I have completed two novels – both unpublished as of yet – and a number of short stories, some of which have been published in small sf publications.
In my “other life,” I have a Ph.D. in Engineering, and I do scientific writing for NOAA to help heal the oceans.
|The copyrights on the article belong to the author. The responsibility for the opinions expressed in the article belongs exclusively to the author.|
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