
I’m a Special Helper
The dog and I took a walk this morning to our local Copenhagen
bakery to pick up a couple loaves of their rye bread. It’s not a pretty walk.
It’s a Los Angeles city street. Lots of concrete. Not a lot of trees. This
bakery makes me happy, though, with its clean white facade and bright orange
door and signage. I know I’m getting closer to the bakery because on our walk
we pass by a kid on a bench eating a round cinnamon danish “the size of his
head,” his mother laughs. Lucky kid. I’ve been watching my middle-aged middle
jiggle a bit more lately, so I’m sticking to the hearty loaf of rye. I’ve got
dog, and we called and paid ahead. They’re handing us the bag of bread out the
door. I won’t have to walk in and smell all of that deliciousness.
We pass by the Islamic temple, and I read sidewalk drawings in
multi-colored pastels. Hearts and rainbows: “We support you!” “We love our
neighbors,” “Love.”...