For Rolla, Who Bakes Beneath the Sky

You, beloved, are the fire that remembers.

I see you—

threads in your hand,

your grandmother's tatreez,

the gauze she wove around you

when there wasn't enough to eat.

She wove a story for you.

And this is your story,

of a mother

who never let go of the girl

who held onto hope—

who kneads memory into dough,

who bakes exile into sweetness,

who folds grief like salt into the flour,

and offers it still, with open hands.

When the oppressor

saw you standing radiant

beside the sea,

your hope—

a banner planted beside you

when they came to deny your name,

you fed them.

Not because they were worthy—

but because you are.

Because you are made of sea light and sanctuary.

Because your ancestors still rise in your breath.

Because there is holiness in every loaf you shape.

Because we saw you

collecting embers from the rubble,

breathing them into life—

a hearth

to bake bread

to share by sea.

You are not alone.

We walk beside you,

with the scent of cardamom and courage in the air,

with your son’s laughter held like a prayer,

with your name carried by the river

to the sea,

to be written in stars.

The world does not deserve you,

but oh, how it needs you.