Lake Lewisia #903

Once a month, Leslie traveled out to the old mill from whom they got the rarer grains used in the bakery, bumping along the last bit of road in a borrowed pickup truck and humming to staticky radio stations. Inside the dusty mill house, amid its smells of gear grease and chaff, the ghosts of fields once harvested kicked up around them in white specters of flour and grist. They were not unkind spirits, and Leslie took the role of psychopomp, carrying their fifty-pound corpses in their cotton shrouds back to the bakery and ushering their souls into new loaves of bread.

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LL#903