Pine tree treeline armband on forearm

The ovens were still ticking when I got your note, so I read it standing by the proving racks with flour up to my elbows. You asked whether the new lad has settled. He has. He calls the bread loaves 'the cakes', which I've decided not to correct, and he has learned to score a batch of tins without taking his eyes off the clock. I've given him the key to the back gate, the one with the stiff bolt that nobody else remembers how to lift.

I walked the long way home this morning, along the edge of the hill where the firs begin. The sky had gone the colour of weak tea and the trees were just a black fringe against it, each one dark at the root and fading to nothing at the tip, as if someone had pressed a thumb of soot into the bottom of the world. I stopped by the stile and thought of your father, who used to say the trees were only standing there waiting for the sun to make up its mind.

The sun did make up its mind, in the end. It came up behind the ridge like a slow tray being carried out of the kitchen, and by the time I reached the bakery door the whole line of pines was lit gold along the top and still black underneath. I took my cap off and held it a while. Then I went in and lit the first oven, because the bread does not care what the weather has been doing.

Come for a loaf when you're next up. I'll keep the heel of the rye aside for you, the way you always liked it.

Yours, Mae