Research paper by Andrade N.

Indexed on: 08 Jun '18Published on: 06 Mar '18Published in: Literary Imagination


Come.The harvest of wheat in the summerstirred our old country sadness,that callus of despair that arranged the earthto protect the germof what would become sustenance;though doubt watered the fragile sproutsand the weeds hid from uncertain tugs,our hands gathered the ears of wheat.What is sown with fear grows despite that fear,faithful to the earth,it looks for its own path, rebelling against discouragement.But we planted our breadwith faith in the seeds and our hands.Our fingernails broke,but we believed in the earth.Dig the hole, place the seed, cover it.Dig the hole, place the seed, cover it.And the earth will do it all.We had faith in the harvest.We had faith in faith.We waited and watered the roots.Come.During the harvestour eyes were filled by the lines beneath the sun;our hands, threshing,filled by the sting of abundance;the heat from the granary was a second summer.We ground the wheatand its packed substance expanded like a new earth,we breathed in its light like a dense cloud,a deeper air.You would not be here in the fall,and you filled my handswith cracked ears and freshly made flour.We tasted the possibility of real bread,and that flour, in mouthfuls, seemed to be real bread.Come.Bread does not last forever,but the oven is stone and white,a house of perpetual birth.Outside, hunger fogs up the windowsand you cannot see out beyond the fence.The mist descends like dustand its thousand eyes close over the poplars.But I open mine as I knead the bread,the warm mist between my fingersawakens.To give form to matter is to wake it,molding it like a new fruit,gathering it into itself;in my handsI open the body of the earth, the gaze of the sun,the temperance of water and the power of growth;Eyes open to take in the fieldsand await their fruits.You are not here,and the rough sugarturns bitter in my hands,scratches,and rebels against the loving langourand obedience of the flour.I close my eyes:there is no house, no sense of the clothes I wear,there is no fog and no trees outsideno outside and no autumn.Only this bread, half-made,and the heat of the oven at my back.Come.October has turned the air heavierand things more fragile.Everything was more solid when you were here,but that vigor persists somehow.You are not here,but the granary is still full.“I know we will see each other again,”you said,and we believed in the earth.Dig the hole, place the seed, cover it.Dig the hole, place the seed, cover it.The earth chose us as her planters.And the earth will do it all.I sit at the table, the bread sliced.The light of October untangles the wheat’s color,its sweetness of concentrated time.Solidity persists in its aroma,in the grains we dried,in the flour of past months,in the bread that now sustains me.