holiday bread

(written at a previous date)

    I can smell orange peels boiling. The smell is coming from a large pot on the stovetop; the lid of the stove is steamy and sitting askew.

    My mother must finally be making her holiday bread.

    I'm knitting a soft scarf. The half-finished scarf is red, deep red. It has lttle wavy ridges and lovely little yarnover holes.

    I'm secretly afraid that I will never be able to fall in love with a real person because I will always be thinking in the back of my mind, "he's just not Fred Astaire."

    I've never been in love with anyone real.