“Mourning is the horizon of all desire,” – Darcie Dennigan, “In the Bakery.”
It started in the Sparrow Bakery. The neighborhood was old but the bread was new, and Lenora felt the horizon of change just beyond the end of the morning. She kneaded a second batch of bread dough to make cinnamon rolls that she would punctuate with dark raisins and festoon with thin white icing.
She listened for the change that was about to happen.
The streets crackled. A hot August breeze – over 90 degrees already – drifted in the open front door from the direction of the old brick plant across the roadway. The small brick building housing the bakery had been made long ago of bricks from that brick factory at the turn of the last century. There was some kind of magic in the way its thick walls held in the morning coolness despite the baking ovens in the back.
She listened for the change as she rolled the dough into cinnamon rolls and laid to rise in the rising alcove in the back.
And still she listened.
Finally the brick whispered to her. “It’s time.” She looked out into the street and saw the yellow light over the distant mountains at the edge of town. She saw the white clouds forming into a tower overhead. She felt the air, electric.
The thunderstorms began about 3:00. With the thunder came the change.