Half asleep, I walked to the baker’s next block.
Not the one you know now for it was not
Bright or colorful, of glass and steel
With modern ovens, display, cash register…
It was of brick or stone masonry you could
Reach blindfolded like a police dog would
For the scent of pan de sal or salt bread
Wafted in the early misty morning air.
Inside the dim cavernous building,
Gently lit by the sleepy sun rising,
Turtle rays crawling through the opposite door,
The sweaty baker by the oven made of stone,
In cotton undershirt, a towel on shoulder,
Between his lips a trembling cigarette
His wooden peel he slid to and fro, in and out.
He knew when the dough had had enough.
I paid his aide, or wife. Pieces of steamy bread
Were counted as they were dropped into a paper bag.
I hugged my prized possession, warming my chest,
Wallowing in its cozy aroma, bringing a vision bright
Of Papa’s breakfast. Buttered bread and coffee.
Reading the morning papers. Smoking his Chesterfield.
And when all was done, a piece of bread or two
Went into a bag. When filled with everything stale,
Mama would ask me to cut into cubes,
Any growth on the outside? Scrape!
Soak in milk. Mash with sugar and eggs.
Add raisins and steam. Voila! A rare treat
For my siblings and me. And we’re all living still!
MLJ03102026TheUnquestioningChild
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