My husband taught me to divide freshly cooked rice into four sections
before scooping it into bowls.
To mindfully make the sign of the cross
in gratitude and remembrance.
My mother always did this, he tells me.
I imagine her hands today,
decades of nourishment raking through murky rice-water,
rinsing ssal until the liquid runs clear.
There were times her family went without,
when the rice was low but she found a way to
fill the bellies of her children anyway.
She combined the rice with barley or another
stretching grain, and suddenly there was enough.
There is always just enough.
It is foreign to my framework of abundance,
but I prayerfully copy the motion:
give us this day our daily bread.
This poem is from a series of poems I wrote reflecting on the Lord’s Prayer. You can read the entire series here.