Bread Maker

I can still smell the fresh bread and feel the cold air rushing through the kitchen window and into our small house. It was always whole-wheat. I hate whole-wheat. But I loved the bread. I think that it might have been the fact that I knew that it was made out of love for me that made the starchy taste of red whole-wheat melt away. But it isn’t about the bread; it’s about the woman who made it.
I can still see the little 5’6’’ woman standing at the long kitchen counter humming a song (more than likely a church hymn) under her breath as she measures out some ingredient and adds it to the mix. Her smile would widen as I entered the kitchen in my footy pajamas and she would greet me with a, “Good morning handsome. How did you sleep?” I think that she truly cared and sincerely wanted to know if I had slept well or not. But that’s just who she is; a caring person.
My mother has a heart of gold. She has raised five kids all of whom will admit to being problem children. Under her watch the oldest four have stayed out of jail, contributed to society and all found spouses who have mellowed them out a bit. After the oldest four left the nest she became the on-call-24-7-nurse for her mother, and at the same time balanced her family and running a business out of the home. She taught me all about service and what it means to be a true friend. If I am guilty of not being a good person, it is my own fault, she is not the one to blame.
As a child my father worked a lot and it was my mother that raised me. Her strong will, charisma and stubbornness have become embedded in my character. Because of our similar dispositions we often find ourselves frustrated and discontent with the other over the smallest of disagreements.
She has struggled a lot over the past few months. Her dreams of me growing up, going on a mission and marring a beautiful girl in the temple have all been discarded. I get so easily frustrated that she won't give me the support that I need right now. I feel like she will come around.
In the current busyness of lives and the bad attitude that I so often have there aren’t many mornings like the ones of my youth. She no longer has the role of the playmaker in my life which is frustrating to her, but I will always be grateful for those early years. It was then that I learned who she was and what kind of a person I want to be. There will never be a time that I walk into a kitchen and I cannot still taste the bread or hear her say, “Good morning handsome. How did you sleep?”