Gemotions

I walked into the bakery, the sweet aroma of baking bread usually a comfort. The shop was quiet and empty, devoid of the familiar warmth of Mrs. Rodriguez, who had taught me everything I knew. Her apron was hanging behind the counter, the only reminder of her presence. Taped to the cash register was a folded note: *Follow your own recipe.* The note was a sentence, with an end and a period, but I wanted answers. I wanted direction. I reached out a hand, and let it fall. I could not move.