1 of 2

Write now Article Tools

It is hard to believe that I am looking at my reflection in the old bakery window. As I do so, memories rush through my head, a strange feelingnothing has rushed through my head for so long. I was born in a house two blocks away from the bakery and lived there for twenty-six years. I enter the shop as fast as my old body allows me. I greet everyone but no one recognizes me. I buy a loaf of bread with sesame grains on top; it is still warm and its smell spreads into the shop creating a delightful atmosphere. Last time I bought a loaf of bread in this bakery, a war had just finished and another one would come all too soon. It is hard to believe that a shop could survive so long through such pain and agony, but it is still standing-and so am I. The streets were refurbished a couple of years ago, I heard, and now I can see the beautiful job that has been done in the town. The old concrete houses have been replaced by beautiful town houses with salmon and yellow walls and orange roofs, and most of the houses host little shops. There are new ones of course; the world keeps changing. The pharmacy was around the corner before, but now it is just next to the bakery. Across the street, the newspaper and magazine shop displays the latest issues. Next to it stands the unmistakable butchery with its beef and pork legs hanging behind the window and chickens cooking slowly in the front of the shop. The Sunday morning smells are different but I like the new ones: the fresh bread, the roasted chicken, the spring flowers blossoming in the streets.

I can hear yells and cheers from the basketball ground behind the shops, and when I reach it I see young men running up and down trying to throw the ball into the basket. Around them, young ladies, parents and supporters are cheering their team, cheering their boys. My valentine left almost twenty years ago. I can see his eyes every morning when I get up and every night when I go to bed. I guess that somehow I've become used to it but I'm tired of loneliness. Growing old with someone else is a beautiful thing and I feel lucky every day for that memory. But what is left for me to do now?

The warmth of the fresh bread in my hand reminds me why I came and I turn around: there is something that I need to see. After a few minutes walk I arrive at a little side street, Rue de Nicorbon'. My heart starts racing. So many years have passed. Will my house still be here? Has it been destroyed like the other ones? So many questions. And

• 1
• 2
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about Short stories: Finding home?
We want to hear your view. Write now!