It's hard to put to words how the sight of a piece of food can hold such visceral sensations. I remember early Sunday mornings after church my grandmothers purple stained finger tips and the smell of her freshly baked blueberry muffins. One glance at these muffins now and I can almost smell the perfume she wore. How, why does this happen? Why do I see you in muffins? Well mom still makes them just the same as you did. Same taste same smell, I felt 6 years old this morning. I remembered you I remembered to wash my hands. Trust me it doesn't get easier. I'm human, I'm weak, and I'm searching for meaning in muffins.

What does that say about me?