3 minute read
Two Loaves of Bread
Two Loaves of Bread Marcelo Saunders
I can’t sleep. I hate nights like these—nights when I have a lot on my mind or am just not feeling well in general. I get out of bed and sneak downstairs to the kitchen and grab two loaves of bread—one for me and one for Mom. I take them back up to my room, change into my clothes, and sneak out the window, careful not to wake up Dad. I carry the two loaves of bread—one in my shirt and the other in my teeth. Once I reach the ground, I head over to the fountain nearby, just down the street. I can already hear the quacking of the ducks that like to wade in the fountain at night. Upon reaching the fountain, I sit down on the edge, take off my shoes, and dip my feet in the cool water. I take Mom’s loaf and place it right next to me where she would normally be sitting, and I then take my loaf and start pulling it apart to toss the pieces in to feed the ducks. This is always so relaxing to me and helps me clear my mind.
I remember when we started doing this—me and Mom. There was a baby rabbit in the backyard one day. Unafraid, it ran up to four-year-old me and I started chasing it around. Next thing you know, a bird of prey swooped in and carried the little thing off. As it got further away, it was making distressed squeaking sounds. Shocked and upset, I ran inside crying to my mother about how the bird swooped in and carried off the baby rabbit and was probably killing and eating it. She got on one knee and pulled me into a comforting hug, complete with a soft yet audible there, there. As she tried to soothe me by running her warm hand across my back, tears soaked her shirt and shoulder.
When that wasn’t working, she got up, went to the kitchen, and returned with two loaves of bread. She grabbed my hand and we walked to the fountain. Upon reaching our destination, she took her shoes off, dipped her feet in the water, and placed me on her lap. We then began to take the two loaves of bread—one for her and one for me— and we pulled them apart and tossed them to the ducks wading inside.
Mommy, can I ask you a question? I asked that day as I leaned back to rest my head against her chest.
Ask away, she said with her calm, soothing voice. I remember the question I asked being a very silly one: Why do animals kill and eat each other instead of just eating fruits and vegetables and stuff?
She lowered her gaze at me and said, Oh sweetie. I wish I had an answer to that. That’s just how nature is, I guess.
I then asked her, You won’t let any animals try and carry me off or eat me, right?
She giggled slightly in response and said, No, sweetie. I won’t let anything eat you or hurt you. Mommy will protect you with her life. That’s a promise. She pulled me into a hug from behind and kissed
me on the crown of my head. She then continued, Besides...I think you’re fine.
Out of curiosity, I turned my head to face her and asked, Oh. Why’s that?
She smiled at me and said, Because you’re too cute to eat up! and tickled me in the confines of her embrace. I fought to stay on her lap as I squirmed and laughed uncontrollably. We eventually settled down, finished with our two loaves of bread, and headed back home.
After finishing with my loaf of bread, I look over to my mother’s loaf, still sitting right beside me. I let out a long and deep sigh. Why did she have to go and make that promise? I miss those days. I miss her.
