Muffin Day

On prayers answered in blueberries and breath.

We called it the dining room. Generous, given it was nothing more than a barren, harshly lit space with folding tables and chairs. Once a conference room on the fourth floor of an office building, it was now strangely outfitted with a cooking range and standalone refrigerator.

The fluorescent lights bore down on every dingy corner, every dusty crevice, as if preparing the space for surgery. It had all the brightness of an operating room, but none of the cleanliness. Instead of scalpels, there were skeletons laid bare. Instead of sterilization, there was the raw mess of emotional excavation.

It smelled like food. Thousands of meals soaked into the paint on the walls. The stale air filled my nostrils and tasted like resignation.

By the door to my right, one of two escapes, hung a large whiteboard. Ten patient’s names were scribbled in a column, followed by one word to keep us focused.

I chose “Breathe.” A decent reminder, one I needed often.

It was Friday. Muffin day. I pulled my book out of my tote bag and refilled my travel mug with the treatment center’s cheap, burnt coffee. We were allowed one cup per day. I started counting mine after two.

Other patients slowly filed into the room. The mood was sluggish after weights and vitals, everyone cursing the 7:00 AM roll call with a blood pressure cuff and scale. We grunted hellos and fell into lock step: plates, utensils, muffins, chairs.

I chose Cheryl Strayed over small talk. Sometime between the third and fourth tiny, beautiful thing, I started eating. “Breathe.” One bite of blueberry muffin. “Breathe.” A second bite.

The words blurred on the page in front of me. I let my focus close in on the candied crumbs coating my tongue. My throat clenched. “Breathe.” My fingers trembled as they picked off a new piece. “Breathe.”

A blueberry popped between my back molars. I pictured a four-year-old sitting in front of me, tearing apart her bakery muffin to extract every spot of blue. She savored every bite before quickly taking another, and another.

I calculated calories, she licked up every morsel. She was as real as she was pretend, a figment of my imagination and a glimpse into my future. I ate the rest of the muffin, like any good mother would.

Now, I’m standing at the counter of a dimly lit coffee shop. Edison bulbs hang from the ceiling and fill the space with a golden glow. I still tally my daily cups after two, but everything else in my life has changed. To my left, freshly baked pastries are on display behind a thin, glass window. A four-year-old girl hovers in front of it, peering inside.

Ember Rae considers the chocolate croissant, then eyes the oatmeal cookie. Finally, her gaze settles on the rows of muffins on the top shelf.

“I want a muffin, Mommy,” she says, unwilling to break her stare.

“Of course, baby. A muffin goes perfectly with steamed milk,” I offer. “Which one looks good to you?”

She taps her pink painted fingernails on the second row of muffins. Their sugary top layer is the perfect lure for a hungry toddler. We wait for the barista to emerge from the back of the shop.

Soft music is playing from somewhere up above. It’s loud enough to hear but too quiet to decipher any lyrics; its muddled hum settles over the shop.

I shift my weight back and forth between my feet. My hips sway and lull a drowsy, six-month-old Elijah back to sleep in his carrier.

Ember twirls and pliés, blissfully unbothered by the strangers sipping their coffee nearby. The world is her stage, and she’s most comfortable front and center.

“I’m starrrrrrrving,” she pleads, tugging at the corner of my sweatshirt.

Right on cue, the barista pokes his head out and hurries over. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting. What will it be today?”

“We’ll have one small latte, one steamed milk, and…”

I pause to glance over at the pastry shelf, and then point to the second mountain of crumbs. “This muffin here, please.”

“Ahh, blueberry. The king of muffins.”

He pulls it off the shelf and pops it into the warmer before making our drinks. I look at my daughter and we exchange a knowing look. I wiggle my eyebrows, “The only muffin fit for a princess.”

Ember doesn’t know it, but we’ve been here before: eating a blueberry muffin and licking up the crumbs and laughing with easy delight. Her giggles bubble up, bright and round, and something gives in my chest. A memory. A wish. The sweet ache of a dream come true.

The barista pats the counter, pulling me back from the déjà vu. “Breathe.”

Warmth rises, slow and steady, spreading from my heart down to the soles of my feet.

“Ready, my love?”

“Yes, mommy.”

I carry our drinks, she carries her brown paper bag, and the three of us walk out of the coffee shop and back into the spring snowfall.

Six years and three months later, I’m right where I prayed I would be.