0142 Buttering Bread

Yesterday I was buttering bread for sandwiches when I saw myself doing this as I must have watched you all those years ago, and forgotten ever since 'til now - the butter firmly spread right to the edges of the crust, pressed into the yielding bread, and then the surplus gently scraped off on the knife with all the careful but not mean economy of a family which after your father's lungs gave in to the cotton dust of the mill where he worked so proudly for John Bright the reformer (and there's a thought) and your mother opened the front door of your home, whose street-front window now became a front-room shop for home-made cakes so that the neighbours' help was charity with dignity and fair exchange; the butter for the scones you made before you left for morning school came from out of a wooden tub from the 'Italian warehouseman' or the very first Co-op, down in Toad Lane... Whether the tears poised at the corners of the eyes were of sadness or of gratitude for this so unexpected memory of the living dead I couldn't say. But now, gratitude. And, and, beauty.