Is it strange that bread is thicker than blood when I think of you today?
Is it that the act of creating something so sustaining
gave us a connection that went beyond "brother"?
I will remember you when I measure the flour and the yeast;
as I knead, I will recall all the times we talked and mostly ate the fruits of our labors.
Crust and crumb.
Let the act be my memorial because that in the end is all I have left of you.
And in the act of baking, I can give you life again.