each time my father cuts into a fresh loaf of bread, he carves a cross into the underside. he's not a religious man, my father, but it's what his grandmother taught him to do, and it has become his way of keeping her memory alive.
i imagine him as a young boy, queueing for hours with his brother to exchange food tokens for a loaf of bread. i imagine him watching my great-grandmother crucify the loaf, before she cuts him a bigger share than she grants herself.
i have never been religious; i have never known how to pray; i don't feel anything when i enter a church, other than my distinct lack of spirituality. my family's ties to a higher power are merely remnants of traditions - a force of habit that honours family and loved ones.
and, ultimately, i am glad i didn't grow up in church. there are many things that the guilt of organised religion would have made substantially more difficult to come to terms with.
but sometimes, when i pass a house of god, see how the people within find solace in a higher power and a community,i feel a pang of jealousy, or perhaps sadness.
there's something about believing in a god because it's true, not because it seems like the only thing to do.
i remember a car ride with my father. he tells me, "i don't believe in god, but, when something important is about to happen, i like to say a little prayer."
i wish i knew what that means.
i never met my great-grandmother, just as i have never met god. but i have been told of the unending kindness and charity of both. i have seen how much they mean to people around me.
and so i find myself thinking of isten and my dénagymama, as i carve a cross into each new loaf of bread.
it's always so fascinating and heartbreaking when a character in a story is simultaneously idolized and abused. a chosen prophet destined for martyrdom. a child prodigy forced to grow up too fast. a powerful warrior raised as nothing but a weapon. there's just something so uniquely messed up about singing someone's praises whilst destroying them.
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