My husband said, just keep baking Bread

So I forget the tanks rolling over the wheat fields towards my house, and now I am on my ninth loaf.  I knead the dough. Before he left, I kneaded my husband’s shoulders to loosen the knots. I will carry on — kneading, shaping, baking. At the open window, his cat snarls at another bold tom slinking up to take its chances.  It leaps away, but it’ll be back.

A wind comes. I glance behind me. The fields shine golden against an ominous sky. The cat’s hackles rise again, and so does my hair from the static before the storm.

My mother said to keep a clean apron, whatever was going on. My mother said not to smile if you don’t have to. I am not smiling. My apron is clean. I hope the rains come and spoil the wheat before the tanks arrive. I can smell bread baking. I can smell smoke.