“Right, recurrent decimals (whatever those are)”  I am sitting in maths class, but my thoughts are miles away.  

How can I concentrate on decimals when all I see in my head is home?

 I see the dusty street in Pantelimon, the houses without huge live fences, the trees not arching above you head, but growing straight. I hear dogs barking or the rusty engine of a Maxi-Taxi crawling by. I see the “alimentara” next to my house, the ice-cream truck stopping to deliver. I see the boys playing football in the street. I see my house and the garden. The huge roses, the trees full of fruits, the cut lawn. Brutus is waiting as always on the fence, lazily gazing down upon me, Dee-Dee barking joyfully, jumping up and down at my sight.

 How can I concentrate when my thought jump back to my old school?  

To the hot class, to the blackboard, to teachers writing with chalk. To the scribbling of the pens upon paper, to the laughs that would erupt when the teacher told a joke, to the noise we would create during lessons that we didn’t like (French). To teachers coming in, while we would run to our places. To the noisy breaks when the boys would run around the class or play some stupid game. To my friends and our unforgettable chats. To each conversation beginning with: “Pai, si ce mai faci?”. To repeating the lesson to each other until we knew it off by heart.

How am I supposed to care about the maths lesson on my last school week?  

It’s a miracle my brain has supported school this long-in Romania we finish in June- but to actually focus, on my last week of school?! That’s too much. Then there’s the weekend with the visit to Andreea, mom’s friend. And she has cats. I  hugged the iPad when I saw the photos on Facebook. The white one is called Sugar, the tricolored one is Molly. Two huge, fluffy, hairy, brilliant Persian cats, ready for love. But soon enough I will find out that both cats will hate me at first sight and that I will need to chase them to get the cat therapy I need. The bell rings. School’s finished. A few more days and I’m in Romania. Night falls. Saturday comes, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday night. Thursday flies away as quickly as the other days.  The on Friday I’m home.  

Life of a cozonac  

As a baby I am made out of milk, sugar, flour, eggs.

Vanilla and Rum.

In an hour I’ve lived my childhood, teenage hood and adult hood.

And all this in a warm bowl.

As I am old I am ready to be filled with the sweetness and bitterness life has given to me.  

I am filled with nuts and cocoa.  

Soon I will die as any brave cozonac dies:  

In the oven.  

But this is not depressing.

I know-as all cozonacs do:

That I will bring joy to the kids that will eat me.

That I will implant smiles upon their lips.

That those smiles will make grandma happy.  

That those smiles will be passed down to anyone that tries me.

For I am a cozonac and a cozonac has only one main ingredient:



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