Counterfeit Memories: Stale Bread

Every morning she wakes to the light of the sun. Soft rays slip their way through the vertical blinds on the eastern wall of her bedroom.

After a quick prayer, she dresses herself and heads to the bakery to purchase her daily bread. Along for the journey is a stowaway Stuffed stealthily into the inner pocket of her jacket is was leftover bread from the previous day. Hard, stale, unfit for human consumption.

She passes a clan of ducks warming up for the day. Piece by piece bread is thrown to the water below, disappearing within seconds of touching the surface. It is therapeutic. Eventually, she moves on.

Fresh bread in hand, she opens the door to her home and puts a kettle of water on the stove to boil. She slowly sips her cup of Earl Grey on the veranda---watching the world illuminate.

Birds fly by.

Cats crawl by.

Days pass by.

It is beautiful.

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