There he stood, Simon Favela outside in the rain, looking up to clouds with no expectation of bread. None at all. He had hunger but bread didn’t fall when clouds rolled with rain. Bread only fell on clear days into arms and baskets of people who lived only on bread. Good bread and vital.
Most days bread did fall. Some people stocked up. Not Simon Favela. He always took what he needed and no more. Wasn’t a hoarder. Neighbor Esmeralda Olivar hoarded, but wouldn’t share on a dark day. Wouldn’t share on any day, dark or blue. She was like that, a hoarder, but Simon Favela tried from his heart to convince. He enjoyed to share.
Hey Esmeralda, said Simon Favela outside her door in the rain, through the screen. Give me some bread? I have hunger.
No bread today, said Esmeralda Olivar.
I know, said Simon. It’s rain outside. That’s why I asked.
No bread for you today, said Esmeralda Olivar.
And that was that as far as Esmeralda Olivar was concerned. No sky, no bread, no worry. She had plenty of bread. Others could too if they would hoard or at least stock up. No time for the unprepared. No time for handouts.
Simon Favela walked and walked some more. Got wet in the rain, didn’t mind. Rain was pure and gave him pureness. Rain was real and gave him reality. He knew too, with bread came responsibility, responsible bread, responsibility. Plenty for all without hoard. Repeat after me, he said. Upstretched his arms. Plenty.
Bread not eaten can be returned. Returned if not eaten, simple. Toss a loaf into a breeze, watch the breeze repeat the toss into the sky where bread then moved across the land and later fell over there, shared over there, in other towns with other people who also had hunger and lived on bread when it didn’t rain.
On a patch of grass lay bread. Simon Favela bent down and touched a loaf. White or wheat or brown or black didn’t matter. Yesterday bread, wet bread. But bread was bread and vital. Bread was real and pushed away hunger. Simon Favela ate what he needed to push the hunger and tossed the rest into the breeze. But rain was yet rain. Bread didn’t fall from sky when rain. Bread didn’t rise either.
Next day rain was gone. Sky blue, breeze blew, grass grew. Simon Favela walked again and thanked the sky. Thank you sky, said Simon. Bread will fall and everyone will eat, hoarders and loners and squirrels. Everyone will push their hunger away. Everyone will pass the day and all will thank the sky.
Not all thanked the sky, though. Not all. Simon Favela was friend of the sky but some people complained when it rained. No bread, no reserve, no friend to say here friend have a loaf. Simon had no friend to say here friend have a loaf when it rained but he didn’t complain. One day without. Or maybe a fallen bread found somewhere. The sky provided.
A young man sat on a bench. Washed his face with bread, washed his arms with bread, his feet, and the back of his neck. What do you do? asked Simon Favela and the young man said I wash.
But why with bread? asked Simon.
Why not? It cleans the mud from yesterday rain. Rain is mud and mud is mud. Time to get clean.
And the bread?
What say? What about it? Look. The young man tossed the bread with mud into the breeze and the breeze repeated the toss into the sky.
Now mud bread will fall, said Simon Favela. Over there.
Over there in other towns with other people who have hunger.
So? My arms and face are clean, said the young man. He stood, walked away.
Simon Favela sat on the bench and watched the young man walk away. A bread fell nearby and Simon Favela had hunger. But the loaf was soiled. Stained and smelled with motor oil. Like an old truck. He couldn’t eat the bread and couldn’t toss it into the breeze either.
A week passed.
Hey Esmeralda, said Simon Favela outside her door under blue sky, through the screen. How is your bread?
No bread today, said Esmeralda Olivar.
Not for me, I know, said Simon.
Not for me either, said Esmeralda Olivar. Bread is dirty and I have hunger.
At the next town meet, Simon Favela stood. Some use bread to wash themselves or their dog or their truck, he said. Now we have dirty bread.
Let’s make an agreement, someone said.
They made a vote. They made a vote to make an agreement to stop dirty bread. The sky was friend and they all had hunger.
Not me, said Pastora Campa, a woman of medium build and wits who had a store. My work is to clean dirty bread.
That’s a good idea, someone said. Opportunity.
They stood and sat. Paced and argued. Argued for hours with pleas for an agreement of clean bread and pleas for those who cleaned dirty bread. Opportunity.
Take care of the sky, said Simon Favela, said. Sky is our friend.
Sky rains, said others. And we need clean bread.
We have clean bread, said Simon. Bread is sky and sky is bread. We must care for the sky.
At last the agreement was agreed. Some grumbled, but no more dirty bread. Everyone went home and the next day it rained.
It rained and rained and Simon Favela walked in the rain. Rain was pure and gave him pureness. Rain was real and gave him reality and reality gave him a thought that another town, over there, with other people, may still put dirt on their bread.
Our bread is clean but maybe their bread not, said Simon Favela to sky and rain. Their bread may cross the sky and cross the sky above us here in our town where we live on vital bread and their bread may fall.
Simon Favela found a loaf in a tree. Yesterday bread from over there. It tasted wet, tasted of wet dirt. A woman who walked by under an umbrella told Simon mud. Repeat, wet dirt is called mud and Simon Favela knew. Our work is not done, he said. He walked back home. Sky is our bread. Our work is not done.
May your months be plentiful and your bread delightful. And I hope you enjoyed this somewhat impulsive piece. If you’re new to Dynamic Creed, first welcome, and second, please know that the light here varies from blue to black. Because we are human and live an expansive range of emotion and potential. Here’s a couple of other stories you may enjoy if you haven’t seen them already.
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