We are sitting in the waning light of evening and old kitchen bulbs. Sitting at our heavy wooden table, eating the overgrown bundles of bread that a church member supplied–bags of them, to feed her five children and our three and everyone else who joined our Sabbath lunch.

But these are the leftovers, still soft, white, and sweet. I cut a roll in half, give one end to my sister. We eat them plain, cupped in both hands. How funny, remember yesterday’s sermon was titled "The Famine," and spoke about the Bread of Life that was missing.

A blue van stops before our dirt driveway, and a small, dark-haired spanish boy runs up to our porch. My brother answers his knock. The boy grins, holds out a stretching, bulging grocery bag to my brother. They share a few words, then the boy runs back to his family. The van backs out and rolls away. My brother walks into the kitchen, sets the bag heavily down on the table.

I pull back the opening. Grapes. Huge, oblong grapes the color of blackish-purple wine. My mother sighs at their kindness. Tomorrow, make them a loaf of fresh bread, she says. It is the way of our families to barter. Communion of the poor. We feast with those who give more than they have. Nothing is missing here.

………………………………
My sister reads this and tells me, wow, we sound like peasent people. I know, I tell her. She asks if I like her hairstyle or not. Not, I tell her, suddenly bothered. Wondering if my writing passes so quickly from all minds.

In further contemplation, yes, it passes quickly from my mind also. I guess it’s the real life moment that in me lingers. I try to capture them in these feeble sentences, but what filters from man is only man, not moments.

hmm. . . I wish you were all here, lifeing it with me