THE BAKERY

It's a small bakery at the foot of the mountains.

We make:

candies, cakes, pies, danishes, torts, cookies, breads, mincemeat, pasties, pastas, donuts, eclairs...

pizza, calzones, subs, lasanga, pumpkin pie (when in season)

I like to wear my smock.

I like to roll the dough with my roller. I get covered with white flour. I look like a crusty ghost. The sun comes in the window. Right at 11:00 am I think about my mortality, my life and where I've been and where I'm going, and how I'm probably going to die in my bakery.

But mostly I think of Amanda and the long walk home up the mountain.

Roll, roll, roll.

Cut, cut, cut.

I empty the contents of another bag of flour into the mixture.

Roll, roll, roll,

Cut, cut, cut.

My life is simple now. I just make the food and people pay me for it. I keep them alive.

Amanda says I'm a regular Osiris, but I'm not a big fan of country and western music.