I’m a Special Helper

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.”...
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