A brown paper bag

27th August, 7.32a.m. Spring Blossom fiesta. Good Morning Beautiful onesEnjoyLove You so MuchMum xx I place the brown paper bag, warm, on the dining table, at their father's. Where they are currently living full time while I find/create a home for us all. I bought the sourdough, that big round one please on the left, when the bakery opened, first thing early this morning. They are friendly in there at the Patisserie. They know my name.Familiar. Home. Known. Connection. These things keep us alive.I enjoy buying good bread from good people making good things. I hold the brown paper bag at my heart as I walk back to the car in the dark.I put my earpods in again. Sometimes I forget to take them out. Only realising when a podcast suddenly starts playing as I'm in the fruit and vegetable section of the supermarket. Gives me a hell of a fright. Orange drops to floor.I change the music. God damn it, I love your double bass Garth Stevenson but there's only so much cartharsis one can have at 7.31a.m in the morning. Already one tear has escaped making a little wet circle on the brown paper bag. Change it up Jo. Breathe. Change it Up. Banal house music, meaningless but uplifting, guides me as I drive around the morning mountains emerging out of the darkness. Mt Iron. Mt Roy, Black Peak. Hello there friends. The warm round sourdough sits firmly aginst my belly. Pressing there like a pregnancy.Safe and secure. I tiptoe around the side of the sleeping house, over the long dewy grass, past my children's pulled blinds. They lie just there. But I can't see them. I give them a morning kiss from my mind. I try to imagine them feeling it land on their warm pink cheeks.The side door is always unlocked. I find a marker pen on the table, amongst last night's salt and pepper, some unopened bills, a bottle of soy sauce and a couple of dirty glasses. The table is retro. Green and white formica bought in Prahran Melbourne when their father and I lived there. It was my favourite piece of furniture. I used to always have a fresh bowl of fruit or flowers in the middle. I mark my words on the still warm paper bag of Bread. Of Life.I leave.Just like santa or the tooth fairy. Was she really here? Does she exist? Was that ever real? Yes it was. Yes it is.And yes it will be again my loves. We will be again. I push play, volume high, happy meaningless house music,fake it till we make it right?, and I run and run and run as the pink and white Spring blossoms fragrance the air and the morning mountains nod at me. 'Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.'Rilke Thank you for reading dear community of readers, writers, poets, artists, creators, Life immersers. May you have a beautiful week stopping to notice the little things. It makes a difference.With LoveJo xx Raw and Unfiltered is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. You can really make a difference in my life.