The bread is warm,

Warm and soft,

Under her flour covered hands,

As she kneads.

She kneads for her family, 

The family who forgets, 

Forgets even their sister,

She slams the dough on the counter.

It hurts her hands,

Yet she continues to pound, 

Pound the dough to remember,

Pound her family to remember.

She knows they will forget.

She knows as she places the kneaded bread into the bowl to rise,

She knows as she whipes the tears from her eyes,

She knows that she will be alone again.

- Clare Williams