It was just another hot summer evening in the company of four younger sisters. Only three of them were old enough to offer a bit of rebellion when it seemed most inconvenient. Between washing clothes, vacuuming the floors and doing dishes the old fashion way, I still had to fit in time to go to the “day old bakery” and get some bread. Once a week I would have to go load up on the good deals that no one else wanted and tote it all back home. All the neighbors knew the routine. Oh how I hated the smell of that bakery, the thought of having to carry it all home on my bike, and those dreaded see through bags were almost too much for a teenage boy to deal with at times. Dad and Mom would be home soon so there was no time to waste.

Pushing open the squeaky door I was greeted with the same familiar odor of dry pastries. The stale air in the dark little shack made for the perfect prelude to a horror movie scene. I made my way down the isles where dry cracked little snacks in packages would seem to beg for my attention. My eyes were fixed on the back wall, that’s where the bread would be, faithfully waiting on me to deliver them from the pig farmers, who would arrive the next day to harvest them for their herds of swine. Quickly and quietly I would gather up as many loafs as my arms could carry and drag my feet all the way to the counter. The thumping from dropping them on the check out stand would draw attention to me. The clerk would eagerly take the money from my hand as she began to ring up the total. Mrs. Littleton always looked the same. Her white hair put up in a bun and yellow teeth that seem to be somehow linked to the possum family greeted each customer the same way. “How are you today?” she would say as she reached for my money. I would give her the same reply each week “OK…I guess”. At that, she would retrieve my change from the drawer with her shaky little hand and place it in my bag along with the bread. I would always wait until I reached the corner before I fished it out and placed it safely in my pocket. “Why does this hill seem to get bigger each time I head home?” I would question as I pedaled the nine blocks home in the swirling heat.

In the drive way sitting in the truck were my parents. They seemed to be winding down from the day of hard work and at the same time bracing themselves to deal with the family issues that would bombard them as soon as they turned the door knob. I would ride past them with a look on my face that attempted to advertise that I had everything under control. Quickly I would scurry to the kitchen and start working. Once the grease was hot enough, I would toss in the hamburger meat and open up a bag of bread and put the rest in the freezer to ration out later on in the week. I would fill the largest glass I could find with ice and top it off with water in order to supply my dad with something to drink. Setting the table for my sisters included a pan of Hamburger meat in the middle of the table for everyone to scoop out their own portion and the steamy rubberized bread that was freshly taken out of the microwave to keep it company. We had to let the bread spend some time in the microwave to soften it or it would fall apart as we tried to make sandwiches out of it. It made some sort of transformation while it was there. It went in dry and falling apart but came out stretchy and stuck to the roof of your mouth. It still kept its same distinct smell though. Musty and moldy would best describe it, but it was all we had, and all I guess we needed.

Tired and weary parents entered the room, patting me on the head as they walked by. Big scars and little scars printed on my dad’s hands from all the years of hard labor seemed to draw out a map. Roads that had been traveled and not much room left to track further exploits. He would reach for a couple of pieces of bread and lopping glob of meat, press it together and then clutch the glass of water to greet thirsty lips. Mom would take one piece of bread and a little bit of meat, roll it up and squish it together before heading off into the living room to sit down. This was almost a daily routine for our family, day old bread and hamburger meat at the end of the day. After everyone ate, dishes were dropped into the sink and everyone gathered around Dad and Mom to sit in their own little world. Many times I would just sit and listen to them talk. Finances seemed to be one of the main topics as well as dreams that may one day come true. Dad always dreamed of having a nice truck to work out of, and Mom dreamed of a garden and growing flowers. They mutually agreed that one-day when things were better, that they would spend time with my sisters and me. “No more day old bread either” they would say.

Although I mostly listened to them, sometimes I would tell them that I would get them the things they dreamed of when I grew up. I knew that if they were ever going to see any of these things in their lifetime, it would have to be because we woke up rich, or one of us kids had to help out. After a little television and dosing off and on, they would get up and head to the bedroom to collapse. We would not see them again until this time tomorrow. Every day, every week, every month, this ritual was practiced.

That was over half my lifetime ago. Now, 17 years later, I have only memories of those days. Momma has been gone for two years now, and Daddy has been gone for fifteen years. I left home at the age of seventeen and did not get to eat much with my family without the presents of day old bread. It was such a big part of my life at one time. It was in with me in the thick of hardship and trial. It was somehow symbolic of the relationship I had with my parents. I got the leftovers of the day…every day. That witch was not wanted, that stale time of the afternoon when all seemed to be less than it should have been. Just enough to keep me from starving, but never really enough to satisfy. I have not had day old bread in such a long, long time. Who could ever think that one-day I could miss it? But yet I do miss it, what I would give, to go back in time and share just a little bit of time with my parents. To taste that bread and have them pat me on the head. Those of you who read this have the power to alter the past. From what it is to what it is to be. The choices you make today will one day be yesterday’s failures or triumphs. If you have the choice to give day old bread or fresh bread to your children (and many do) which do you choose to give? One cost a little more than the other but the memories that are birthed thereafter depend on how much you invest. I have made a personal vow to only give the best to my children. When they are older and on their own, they may forget the best gifts, the best clothes, and etc. but they will never forget the best of my time. That my friend is what God intended when he planned for the family. For us to learn to give and reap the rewards of our labor of love.

My children had never heard the song Garth Brooks sings. “if tomorrow never comes”…I sang it to them just the other night before I tucked them in to bed. I replaced the words “she/her” with “they/them”. Great tears welled up in their eyes as I sang to them and they each stood at my side and held me tightly. Assuring me that they knew how much I loved them, they continued to hold me as I told them how much I loved them. Now they have asked me to sing to them each night after we kneel for bedtime prayer, as long as I am able, I intend to do this.

After all, there will come a time when tomorrow will go on without me, and they must too. Until that time I will strive to give them the freshest bread and leave them with the greatest of memories, memories that I have lived without. My Prayer today is that whosoever reads this will be somehow blessed and encouraged to do the best that they can do with the time given unto them. Thank you for the bread you just shared with me.

R.