One of the things trauma took from me was the sweetness of the earth. And I longed for the world around me to come alive again. I ached to smell the bread baking in the oven. The soft, sticky wetness under my hands as I kneaded the dough the moment before it went into the loaf pan. To have noticed the fly buzzing around my head, fearing it would wind up in the bread and be mistaken for a raisin. But if someone asked what I did over the weekend, I would most likely say, “I made bread.”
