A Story of Women
Daisy sat reading on the porch, curled up in a white wicker chair. Lazy, she turned the page, pulled her shoulders up and let them go with a yawn; pushing back luxuriously into the cushions of the chair, she reached out for another of the delightful Russian cookies from that little shop near the station. What were they made of? Caraway seeds hard on the tongue while the soft inside of the cookie melted in a sweet pap in her mouth. Quickly baked in a hot oven. How could anyone stand by a hot oven on a day like this, gusts of burning air billowing up into one’s hot face, scorching one’s cheeks red. She began on another cookie. Still, white arms in white flour and her skirt—her kirtle—tucked up, and the smell of new bread; perhaps a baker’s wife? The floor would be bleached with month after month of spilled flour, flour trodden into the broad sill of the open door and blown out onto the grass. Even the flowers by the lintel come up blanched, pink tulips, pink roses, pale pale blue delphinium.
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