 French la Vie 
The table held a simple loaf—brown, uneven, still warm. It was not made in haste. The hands that brought it there had touched flour before dawn, water measured by instinct, salt added with memory, not spoons. It had waited, still under a cloth, as the sun rose—rising too, slow and sure, because time is part of the giving.
The bread did not arrive alone. It carried within it the silence of early hours, the strength of arms, the letting go of grain ground fine. It asked nothing but to be broken, and shared.
When shared, it gave more than its weight. It gave the hours behind it, the patience. To feed others is to offer your time in a form that can be held, bitten, chewed. To become bread, daily, is not romantic. It is real, ordinary, costly. It is choosing to nourish even when no one sees the oven.
And that is the point. Not the bread itself—but the hands open enough to give it.
At this moment, there are people in the world who are starving for bread—longing not just for food, but for us to respond, to notice, to give.
Free Palestine.
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