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Breaking Bread

I hate this toaster. The silver mouth has multiple crevasses to catch sesame seeds. It has a dull black plastic exterior that succumbs to pressure under my thumb. Light as a feather when I lift to clean it, seeds fly out all over the counter I am trying to wipe. First world problems. This morning I woke at 5am. The whirring of the washing machine in the darkness is a clear testament to my industrious nature. In the low-lit kitchen, windows black, I scrub granola trays, a sharp scratching of metal on metal. I swirl a gingham dishcloth in hot soapy water, squeeze and turn to the stove. I wipe remnants of greasy fish stew and lift heavy grates to chase the weekly spray of oats from

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