Season of Bread

746 CHRISTIANITY AND LITERATURE Season of Bread This is the month of first harvest. In the Gospels, Jesus feeds five thousand. Under bright lights, I buy a soft loaf swaddled in plastic. I am a guest in this mart, a valued customer. I jostle a cart with a broken wheel and stake my spot in line, counting and recounting to make sure I belong in express. All the loaves of my life, how far would they line up, heel to heel, would they circle the city? How high could my feet ascend on their salted rungs? Always an extra loaf in the house: seeded, shining; flat and charred; braided and raisin-studded. Each week, the priest lifts his brown offering, a moon scarred in cruciform, holds it up like an infant's clean body warm from the bath. Hands cupped, feed us, our constant hunger, our greed, our births risen from ovens of rib and blood. We consume this torn blessing. We brush the crumbs from our children's shirts, so nothing may be lost. ANYA SILVER ...