Her gaze landed on a sign attached to the stone wall surrounding the cemetery, where a poem had been inscribed.
Your tombstone stands among the rest
Neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled out
On polished, marble stone
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn,
You did not know that I’d exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
In flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
Entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
One hundred years ago,
Spreads out among the ones you left
Who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew,
That someday I would find this spot
And come to visit you.*
All these people—men and women—had helped create her. True, she couldn’t see them, but that didn’t make them any less real. Could they see her now? Were they silently cheering her on? Witnessing her day-to-day decisions? Encouraging her in some way? Would she meet them on the other side?
Did the coins matter? Or had they done their job by bringing her here to this place, face to face with her own mortality?
She’d dedicated her life to baking bread. Was this really what she wanted to do? Her work brought others joy. Her bakery provided a warm, friendly shelter from the crowded sidewalk, the contentious office cubicle, the stormy sea...not that she’d seen any beleaguered sea captains lately, but still. Her work might not win awards, or change lives, or cure diseases, but it did make people happy.
She didn’t have to pass down coins to her posterity—should she ever have any—but she could hand down recipes. In fact, she could give recipes to anyone. Weren’t they all children of God?
Zoe stood, brushed off her skirt, and headed for the chapel. She spotted her sister, Grandma Lillian, and Laurel standing on the steps, looking for her. She greeted them with a wave.
“Where were you?” Laurel asked.
“Just planning out my cookbook,” Zoe said.
“What cookbook?” Courtney asked.
“The one I’m going to write.”
