The Long Way Home from the Forno

Went out early for bread, which was the only errand I actually had, and it was cold enough that I walked quickly until I stopped wanting to. The forno had the door propped open and the whole street smelled of it, and the baker handed me a loaf still warm enough that I had to carry it by the paper. I’d planned to come straight home. Then I decided not to, which is a decision I make about once a week and never regret.

So I took the long way, down past the chestnut tree and along the wall where the town keeps its back turned. Somebody has had a load of firewood delivered since the last time I went that way — split and stacked the whole length of a doorway, the cut ends showing pale. That’s the first one I’ve seen this year, and I stood there a minute because I like what it means. Everything else on that street looked exactly the same, which is more or less the point of it.

Halfway along, a dog started up behind a gate, and three houses down another one answered, and then a third somewhere further off that I couldn’t even see. Not one of them had anything to say beyond the fact of the other. Nobody came out to check. I walked the rest of the way with the loaf under my arm like something I’d stolen.

There’s a small trick I use on the computer that has nothing to do with bread: cd - takes you straight back to whatever directory you were in before, the shortcut home. I use it all day. But I want it on the record that I know the shortcut and took the long road anyway, and that the two aren’t in competition. Supper was just the bread, oil, salt, and a bit of cheese, because the loaf was the whole event. It’s half gone already, which tells you how the day went.