A child kneads the dough, pressing love into every fold,
Each rises to a quiet devotion.
A grandmother’s hand moves through theirs—
Guiding, shaping, whispering the old ways.
The weight of tradition rests in a child’s palm,
Flour-dusted and warm, like a story retold.
They do not need to ask how to make bread—
They remember the way their loved ones showed.