The Bakery on the Corner

There was a small bakery on the corner of our street, and every morning before school the whole block smelled of warm bread.

Dad would send me down with a few coins, and the baker — everyone just called him Yossi — always slipped an extra roll into the bag "for the walk home."

We never had much in those years, but I don't remember feeling that we lacked anything. I remember the warmth of the paper bag against my chest on cold mornings, and how the first bite never made it all the way home.