The Scent of Flour

I don't remember a time when her hands didn't smell of flour. Her head bent, her body leaning forward into her work. Her strong arms supporting her strong hands as she kneaded the dough. Dough that would rise to bread that would soon fill our bellies.

She cooked other things, stews, potatoes, porridge, eggs; but still the smell of flour lingered. Its scent clung to her as if it were her own.

I think this is why I loved hugging her. Why even as a teenager, when I should have been recoiling, pushing her away, I sought her out. I fell into her embrace at every excuse. Her scent, flour, dough, fresh bread, comforting me, surrounding me as if I had climbed into an oven and shut myself inside. A daughter back inside her mother's womb. That was the degree of her warmth. That was how special her hugs made me feel; like I as the only soul in the world other than her.

She kneaded dough well pas the introduction of sliced bread and the replacement of her soft brown hair for brittle gray strands. After her nest had emptied and past my father's passing. She kneaded until her arms, no longer strong, could n longer support her weakened hands. But still she smelled of flour, of warmth, of comfort, of home. Her embraces still as warm as an oven.

There is no need for me to knead. Nor is there time. I buy my bread- baked, sliced, wrapped in plastic, and sealed with a twist. My crock-pot cooks my stews, and my taste buds know only instant oatmeal. And yet always on my pantry shelf is a bag of flour. A bag full of my mother, there whenever I need her to be.