The Baker And The Child

There was a child and there was a baker, one day at the bakery.

And one told the other,  

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.”

Now, of course, this isn’t the start of the story, in fact, that was the end. So I would like to start from the beginning, saying that it was a cold winter’s day. My mother took a call outside the cafe, while I sat inside enjoying one of the most generic drinks of all time. Hot cocoa. 

“Why are you so quiet all the time?” I asked, swinging my legs as I sat at the counter. The hot cocoa in front of me had grown cold, as I looked over at what the baker was doing. She was simply kneading some dough and folding it into some intricate pastry. Something I knew I couldn’t do, even given a thousand years. Not once in my life had I talked to her, but something that day compelled me to ask her something. I don’t know why I asked THAT out of all things, but I supposed it worked. I say it worked not because she gave me an immediate answer, but because she acknowledged me. 

Most of the time, she would simply look at the customers, a smile plastered on her face as she served them. When they left, she simply waved them goodbye. 

Though, whenever people tried to talk to her, she had never really replied, or even cared to give them a look of acknowledgment. 

She stopped her work for a moment, then continued. 

“Mommy and everyone else says you’re a snob. I bet it isn’t true.”

I said, sipping at my cold cocoa. My younger self didn’t believe in the evil that could sometimes lurk in this world. 

“I bet you’re really nice and talk a lot when people aren’t here.” 

A co-worker of hers had seen me talking to her. I waved over at him, giving a toothless grin, (as I had recently only lost my two front teeth) before he signaled at her. 

I didn’t understand what he did with his hands to signal at her, but I suppose it was to tell her to take a break. 

Because she sat right next to me. 

Now, a child might feel intimidated with an adult right next to them, but not once had I ever felt scared. Adults were children too. Of course, that was before they matured into their current states, but they too were once children. I believed that she wouldn’t mind quelling my curiosity. 

She did something with her hands (I later learned that it was sign language), that I couldn’t quite understand. I cocked my head to the side and said quickly that I couldn’t understand. 

She pondered for a moment before pulling out a piece of paper, beginning to write. 

I didn’t know what to say. Why couldn’t she just tell me straight to my face?

“I’m deaf.” The paper said. She was using a menu pad. You know, the things that waiters take your orders on.

“Is that why you have that machine thingy on your ears?”

“Yes.” She wrote back. 

“So they help you hear?” I asked, clearly intrigued. I wanted to know everything. 

“Yes.” Again, she wrote. 

I paused a bit to absorb everything, while she stood and began to walk back to the counter. 

“Wait!” I said. “Can we talk for a little longer? Mommy will take forever.” I complained with a groan. 

“I don’t think you’d want to chat with me. I’d be boring.” She wrote on the tiny paper and gave it to me. 

“You’re not boring.” I said. 

“Nobody’s boring. They just have stories that have to be heard.”

“Who taught you that?” She passed another note to me, sitting back down. 

“My mommy.” I said. 

“Your mother is a good person.” I read out loud quietly, as she passed me the note. 

“I mean, yeah.” I replied. “Nobody’s bad anyways. Just misunderstood, some just needing help.”

Then, I asked her a question that I would be ashamed to ask anyone nowadays. 

“Do you think that YOU’RE misunderstood? I mean, people think you’re snobbish, when you took time out of your day to talk to me. You haven’t sent me a mean note once, and you are super nice!” I said, as she looked at me, shock in her eyes. 

“I guess. People haven’t heard me speak, so they automatically assume that I am a snob.” 

I wanted to help her, I really did. I just didn’t know how. I was only a seven-year-old child, with nothing in mind. Wracking my mind, I thought and thought of a solution.

“Have you ever actually tried the thingy called… speech therapy?”

“It’s not like it’s going to work.” She signed away at the piece of paper that she gave me. 

Then suddenly, I told her something I would never forget. 

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.”

She then looked up at me in shock. 

“I’m bothering you.” She signed through the paper. “I’ll be on my way now.”

“At least think about it.” I said. 

And so she did. 

While she stayed in thought, I changed. I grew, my mother and I stopped being regulars at that cafe, and we simply moved on with our lives. 

She didn’t. She stayed on, working on her speech, in hopes of no longer being misunderstood. 

It was one wintery day that I walked through the town, and into the bakery my mother and I used to be regulars at. I traced the furniture with my fingertips, as the waiters and waitresses had hustled and bustled about the cafe, trying to serve every customer. The stained glasses painted colors on my face, as I stared up at them. It was then, I chuckled, and for old times sake, decided to sit at the counter, swing my legs, and order some hot cocoa. 

I raised my hand to ask someone to take my order. It was then, that I saw a waitress who looked familiar. Huh, how strange. How could I remember someone from all those years ago?

She served the customers she was serving quickly and ran to me to take my order. 

“Hey, how have you been doing,” And then she said my name. 

Puzzled, I looked at her. 

“How did you know my name? I’m not a regular! Well, at least not anymore...”

“You really don’t remember me?”

I racked my brains, trying to remember who that was, but it was futile. Who WAS she?

“Say,” She said. “When you change someone’s life, do you really forget them that easily?”

“People move on.” I said. “We forget what we are destined to forget, and we cross the Lakes Of Time, slowly swimming, and forgetting what we need to lose memory of.”

“So you really don’t remember? How silly of me? How could you? You were only seven at the time…”

Seven? Then she must have really known me. But who was she?

“I’m sorry, may I just get an order of hot cocoa?” I asked, trying to deter the conversation, as she had looked like she had been on the verge of tears. 

“Yes, of course. How silly of me to bring up everything. You’re my last customer before my shift ends.” She said, while running into the kitchen. 

I again tried to remember who she was, and what she did in my life (or what I did in hers). 

She came back later on, and served my hot cocoa. Then, she did something I hadn’t expected. 

She put an arm on my shoulder and said, 

“Thank you. You might not know me, you may never see me again, we may never cross paths again, but you’re right. If you’re destined to forget me, that’s ok. I just wanted to thank you for everything that you’ve done.”

I responded with a questionable alright, as I watched her disappear into the kitchen once more. 

I pondered on the words. 

Who was she? Why was she thanking me?

I stayed until the afternoon, turned to night, taking my time with the hot cocoa that had now grown cold. 

The moment I finished the last sip, I remembered who she was. 

But just like a flame that’s destined to go out on a cold wintery night, I knew we would never cross paths again. 

I cried bitterly upon leaving, the ice pelting my face. 

Life is beautiful, but so fleeting.