Your home was sanctuary, warm from an oven baking bread and sweets, to a child seeking retreat from the task of identity--tastes of rich moral morsels, like your dumplings on stew, and gorging on both I grew wit and waist, wasting neither treat nor the time spent to make it--a childhood, like most, ignorant of dreadful, unbeautiful things and naive about what was happening outside your kitchen; it wasn't evasion but a child's mind that expected morsels forever, forever a hearth, forever safety--but my forever couldn't last, warmth receded, instead of laughter, pleading, low at first but with increasing urgency, for comfort and for rest--for a moment again without the medicine, like it used to be, when cookies were a cure-all and humor nourishment for bodies born to feel the sublime violence of laughter.