What stays
- 8 hours ago
- 1 min read
Around that table no one was in a hurry to finish.
The kitchen was warm. The old wood oven had been going for hours. The air smelled of citrus and yeast. Of something that has no name but you recognize with your first breath.
Our grandparents’ hands were choosing the wheat grains one by one. And we were right there with them.
Someone was looking for the right scent among a basket of citrus. Someone else was kneading in silence.
No one explained anything.
And we were there.
Without understanding. Without knowing that those gestures were making their way inside us.
You don’t learn these things from books. They don’t pass on through photographs.
You carry them stitched inside you without knowing it. You discover them years later. In a slowness that surprises you.
In a gesture you make without thinking.
One day you will stop in front of a scent. You won’t know where it comes from. You won’t know why it belongs to you.
No one ever wrote that album. And yet that album exists.
Open it. Remake the gestures. Every now and then.
Some things don’t wait for you. They come looking for you. And when you find them you realize they were already there.
In your hands. In your way of choosing.
Grain by grain.
Happy Easter
