Cob of Grace

We went because the call came –
a need, a name, a dose to deliver.
No invoice, no ledger,
just the quiet urgency of breath.

The growth economy would chart it:
kilometers driven,
time logged,
value exchanged.
It would ask:
Was it efficient?
Was it scalable?

But then –
quite unrelated,
unasked,
unearned –
a cob of fruit sourdough,
still warm,
cradled in hands that had no part
in the medicine run.
No algorithm predicted this.
No KPI measured the yeast of kindness
rising in a neighbour’s oven.

This is the share economy:
where gifts ferment in silence,
where abundance is not hoarded
but handed over,
where the crust cracks open
to reveal
a sweetness
no market can price.

We delivered medicine.
We received bread.
And somewhere between the two,
a covenant was baked –
not of profit,
but of presence.