The Baker

The baker was well-known and well-loved in his village.  Even from neighbouring towns' people would make an extra journey to the baker, as there was always a little extra to be received for their effort:  the raisin-loaves had extra raisins, the croissants were slightly bigger (and definitely tastier), and the savouries always a feast for the eye.  Then there was the widow that might find more than the required change in her purse, or the struggling family would discover an extra bagel or two in their bag.

New-Born's were introduced to him before their own grand-parents met them,  or a new little puppy was shown off before it was taken home (It's OK - I'll clean the puddle!). And be sure to know that no child would leave the bakery without something sweet in the cheek!

His welcoming smile and the cosy cinnamon-and-maple atmosphere of the bakery would invite even the loneliest traveller to pop in for something to eat, and soon little family secrets or private burdens would be shared with the baker - for there was always time to listen and a friendly word to all and any that passed on their need...

Yes, the baker was well-loved by all.


Every evening, as soon as darkness falls, the baker would draw the curtains of his bakery, lock the door, and take the back stairs to his home above the bakery. First he would enter his little girls' bedroom, straighten the bed sheets, and as usual, he would hug the pillow tight to his chest, trying to breathe in any possible remains of her presence.  How many years is it now?  He tries not to remember the last day she waved good-buy, never to return from that tragic school-outing. Gently he would replace the pillow, touch the smiling face in the bedside picture-frame, and ever-so-softly close the door.

At his son's door he would pause a moment, as if to enter.  Drawn by the city lights, and visits that were few and far in between, all that remained behind that closed door was the painfully agonising longing of a father for his son.  Lately there was even talk of a transfer to the big America, so far, far away....

The last room he entered, was dark, with curtains drawn, and the muffled breathing of his terminally ill wife was all that could be heard.  He draws the covers over her shoulders, lovingly planting a soft kiss on her forehead, enjoying her silent presence while he still may.

And from somewhere deep, very deep within his being, a sob would rise, slipping unexpectedly over his lips, muffled in a sigh.  It is so soft, so very soft,  that it is heard only by the solemn darkness that covers the upstairs room of the bakers' house.  Then he bows his head in a soft, brocken prayer.