My grandma is like a loaf of cinnamon bread. Bread that folds and swirls with beautiful, sweet layers of cinnamon. Layers of stories and experiences that only a carefully crafted batch of bread could contain. A perfect loaf of cinnamon bread. 

If I were cinnamon bread, I would be messy. My pockets of cinnamon would be breaking at the seams; not expertly assembled. It wouldn’t look pretty and its cinnamon coating might not be spread evenly. But it was built with love. Made from the same recipe that my grandma taught me. I hope one day my bread may resemble that of my grandma. I hope that with experience and practice and generosity I can pass down a perfect cinnamon bread to my grandchildren.

It’s strange because my grandma hates cinnamon bread. She doesn’t like how sweet the spice is. She often critiques how lumpy it is, or how thick it is, or how pale it is. But everyone loves that humble bread. The bread that always embraces you with its sweet signature smell. The bread that always is loyal with its unwavering trusty taste. The bread that is perfect. I miss that bread; I miss her a lot.