She finds comfort in the apron.
The cool shell of the egg cracks within her warm palm. Then the mix begins.
Flouring counters and kneading her dough, this is where her passion shows.
Hands, hair, cheeks dusted white. Fingers push through the mixture’s surface, squishing and shaping, until she is pleased with her work.
“Nothing better than a beautiful baker,” admirers remark.
She could have been a wife, a mother. She could have seen the world.
But her home is in the smell of baking bread and the taste of buttercream.
And through her fingertips,
She holds the power to