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It was too heavy for me to lift,
My older sister could manage it just fine;
she could do anything.

Glazed tan crockery,
decorated lovingly I have no doubt,
for clearly it was homemade.

The turquoise stripe
was the color of my birthstone
my mother said.

It was the dough bowl.
So many loaves began there,
the yeast a symbol of faith.

It turned flour and water into sustenance
and memories that filled the bowl to overflowing,
like snow from a winter storm.

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