My cousin brought over a loaf of sourdough this week.
Still warm.
It was on a plate,
set inside a basket she carried on her arm.
There was a small bouquet tied to the side.
The basket was hers.
But the way it was brought in—
the whole presentation—
felt sweet in a quiet way.
Unassuming.
But memorable.
The bread was covered with a towel.
Still warm underneath it.
I took a second
and just breathed it in.
Didn’t rush past it.
Didn’t move on right away.
Just stayed there for a moment.
Some things don’t ask for attention.
But still get it.
