Bread and sun ashes

A story from the Aegean notebooks

I found this place by accident. It's places like these that stay with you - not because you looked for them, but because you found them.

The bakery was on a corner of the street, warm and a little forgotten. The awning over the door was bright yellow, like the midday sun, and on the shelves inside were round loaves, like little islands. With crisp crusts, as if they had been taken out of the oven just when you stop expecting and everything happens.

I walked in as if I were in someone else's yard. And a minute later it was as if I was here every morning. They didn't ask me any questions. They just nodded. I chose bread - big, warm, with golden flour. I sat down at a table outside. In front of me was a wall on which sun ash was playing.

The owner was talking to a woman at the window. I didn't understand the words. But there was something in these phrases that doesn't require translation. As if everything was in its place.

I drank water. I listened to the street. And I thought about how strange it is: sometimes home is not a place. It is the smell of bread. And the shade in which you do not want to hurry.

When I got up, the bread was still warm. And when I left, it seemed to me that somewhere behind me, a tiny, almost invisible smell of the wheat morning was floating for a long time.