Pan de Laja

There is a little town
to the west of El Alto,
among the Illimani´s pleated skirts,
called Laja.

In the mud ovens of Laja,
over smoking charcoal,
lajeños make a bread
unlike any I have ever tasted:
pan de Laja.

Nothing but flour, water and salt,
it is unexpectedly soft;
with a flavor much like pita,
supple as a pancake,
it's flecked with charred, dark brown freckles
that taste like wood and wind.

It comes in flat rolls
just the size for a hefty sandwich,
but too big for a side-dish,
so we often end up
pulling pieces off of a single roll,
literally breaking bread together
out of convenience as much as
camaraderie.

Three women,
each on the brink of a new decade:
third, fourth and fifth;
each from a different corner of the world:
la Llajta, el país del norte y la capital;
kneaded together,
much like the ingredients
of that simple bread.

And I cannot imagine
how it could be a coincidence
that Laja
and Challah
are basically the same word:
one, twice-repeated vowel
with flip-flopped consonants.

Bread broken, and shared,
family and community partaking
of a simple, common meal,
remembering the sacrifices
of the past and of the present,
and giving thanks despite
the rending of garments,
of relationships and of bread,
confident that, after every tear,
must inevitably flower a new beginning.

So we sit around our small, square table,
pulling pieces off of our pan de Laja,
together -
sometimes laughing,
sometimes throwing words like darts,
sometimes in silence,
caressing and punching and pinching the dough
until something,
albeit simple and charred,
can be made into loaves
and, unified by fire,
offered up to the world.