other bits of blog

Monday, November 9, 2009

IDentity II

I have nothing to say, so I'll write.
p.s. before you read this, you should probably read "my identity".

December 17th, 1991 12:00
Mama said that I should write in this journal every day. I forgot about it. Just last night, I found it under my bed. Just now, I figured out that it was a journal. So, um, I guess I’ll start writing. I can’t sleep, it’s the perfect time.

The streetlights flickered, shimmered, and blinked out as the new day arose. Slowly, the tiny Montreal street awoke, and the baker stepped down from her apartment to change the “closed” sign to “open”. Here, time had never changed. The newspaper boy flew down the street on his bike, flinging papers every which way and shouting out the headlines. He stopped as he saw the young girl walking on the sidewalk, staring through the baker’s window, her hands in her pockets. The newspaper boy swore that he had seen her in the orphanage, the one who could cook.
I watched the sign, watched the customers come and go, but most of all I studied the add on the side of the bakery window. “HELP NEEDED,” it said. I needed work, to get money, to be able to be confident that I would be alright. Maybe I could even take the train to Boston! Confident in myself, I pushed the door open. The tiny shop smelled like bread and wheat and what I thought could even be spices and nuts. The pastry cabinet in front of the desk was full of croissants, baguettes, bread fresh from the oven, cakes, pies, sweets, and everything I could imagine that could possibly be imaginable. The aroma was irresistible, and even I knew that the cooks in the orphanage always wanted me to bake, and everyone their loved my pastries. I knew that this would be my job until I had enough money to get to Boston. I knew.
“Voila, voila, voila!” yelled the baker. It was normal to hear French in this city, I knew it quite well. But for once, this woman’s voice actually fit her personality. She was roly-poly. Not fat, roly-poly. I remember her hugs. They were like big, warm blankets covering you in the winter, a warm fireplace. She always had flour on her fingers and in her hair. Her name was Jacqueline, and she had grown up in France, in a little town outside of Paris. Jacqueline took me in right away, gave me room and board, too. I think, in the end, when I left, she gave me some of her money out of her own pocket. Jacqueline.

Some Frenchwoman, eh?

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