It's too early to be up, really
But it's worth it.

Every Saturday, the routine is the same,
But something changes
Every time.

It's not the bread that's changed.
No, that stays the same, the scent
Filling the warm kitchen with the
Promise of fresh loaves in an hour

Or so.

But it's just dough right now, a
Wonderful squishy mess of fine white flour and
Mush. The warning is the same: Be
Careful, because one mistake can
Ruin all your hard work.

The taste is the same. It is so
Much better than the grocery store
Wonder Bread. It tastes like
Winter nights huddled by the
Fire.

It's not the people who have changed.
No, it's just me and my grandmother,
Always

unless my
Grandfather meanders by, bringing with him
Tidbits of wisdom and warm-weather smiles.
His voice joins my grandmother's ever-present
Pitch, creating a noise that sounded like
An argument to everybody else but a
Windchime to me.

So what's changed?

Maybe it's the
Feeling
Of growing older
That's caused the change.

The homemade bread is the same.
It's still made every Saturday.
My grandparents are the same, though their
Constant bickering sounds less like a
Windchime, now.

I sleep in now.
Maybe it's me who has changed.