Remembered

Yesterday I was slicing a loaf of bakery bread and something about the way I did it - the tilt of my head, maybe, or the way the tip of my tongue curled slightly over my lip in concentration - made me think of my grandmother.

Having spent several years of her life literally living on bread and tea alone, Močiutė never took nourishment for granted. She used to bake her own European style rye and every last bit of it would be used, whether it was made into crumbs, incorporated into a soup, or turned into slop for the dog.

She always handled bread so lovingly, as though it were the most precious commodity in the world. I have a vivid image of her in my mind's eye, cutting into a loaf pulled fresh from the oven, carefully, gently, a half smile playing across her lips. I sometimes (but not often enough) think of this when I discard the crusty end of a loaf, or remove weeks old leftovers from the fridge and toss them directly into the garbage.

My grandmother died two years ago today, and I miss her.