There is a bakery
in one of the oldest parts
of Main Street,
down a small alleyway,
where the road is brick
and letters curl into stone
with the initials of all the people
from the Calypso,
the ship that brought
so many families here
from over the sea.
My grandfather tells me
that for some,
it was the hardest thing
they ever did.
People had to leave their families,
or find a way to save them.
When they finally got here,
not everyone was welcome.
He tells me that people who go through
a voyage like that
will do anything
for each other.
When my grandpa first got here,
there were only small roads,
mostly just farmland,
and little by little they laid brick
for the streets
and opened more shops,
one at a time,
so they could remember
who they once were.
Not everyone sees the initials
or knows what they mean.
But I do:
different letters and characters,
even a painted flower,
like a stone garden
planted for them
to always remember
when their time here began.
I know I’ve arrived when I smell
fresh coffee cake,
strawberries simmering;
see cookie dough rolled out
on long, flour-sprinkled tables,
chocolate-raisin babka,
and coconut macaroons.
I stare through the front glass case.
Mr. Cohen puts his towel
over his shoulder, smiles,
and hands me a chocolate rugelach
on a napkin,
and I sit.
I wait for him to pull the last bagels
from the boiling water.
I get one salt bagel
and one black coffee
for my grandfather,
and a soft maple cookie for me.