Painting by Vincent Van Gogh
What is the story I want to tell?
How do I start?
There’s the town, the shop, the house, the pianos, and letters…
…and the man, my God, the man….
I didn’t come from here. My mother and I left the Hungarian city where I was born in July of 1938.
My mother died in 1965, yet I still see her in my kitchen salting stocks, and kneading dough.
No one bakes in the suburban cul-de-sac where I live. I suspect few know how.
They buy their breads and cakes in quaint Midwestern bakeries and markets, and bring hot meals home in plastic containers, or bags, or cardboard boxes.
But I am a creature of old habits, and fill my home with the scents of my mother’s soups and rolls.
She was a conjuror, my mother, giving life to everything she touched. reading past…
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