When I stepped outside the cold February air embraced me with the smell of spring. No snow. I smiled because the weathermen were wrong. For some reason, I like when they don’t get it right.
I took the twenty-seven steps down to the driveway. My dog had insisted that Shakespeare wasn’t as important as her afternoon walk. So there I was, arm stretched out, being pulled forward against my will.
It was warm enough that my thin fleece coat was perfect, but cold enough that my hands were in my pockets. I always loved this time of year, because the seasons hadn’t quite decided if they were ready to change. It gave you a mix up of weather. Never predictable, just willing to surprise you.
I passed the rows of my neighbor’s houses. They were neatly cropped up behind the sidewalks, with some windows lit, and others dark. I slowly approached the bush of birds and twigs. At three o’clock every day, a symphony of winged instruments sit and twitter until the sun goes down. But the bush was silent, so with a last fleeting look, we continued on.
It wasn’t until we reached the red, eight-sided sign standing at the end of my road, when something popped into my head.
It’s a strawberry worthy day.
I had always wondered how my mind strings together little pieces of my thoughts, and ends up with something that I want to grasp onto.
That morning, I had decided to bake.
I had reached into the cabinet that was once too high up for me. I had tugged out the worn cookbook with brown and floury stained pages. I had found the yellow sticky note, and had flipped open to its page.
Blueberry muffins.
I had used to make them all the time with my sister. She would do the batter, and I would do the topping. For me that had involved smashing my hands into a bowl of butter and sugar and cinnamon. It was such a gooey mess, that it was impossible not to love. She would smile at me, and clean up the mess. We would play our favorite songs on our beat up radio. We would take out the broom from the closet, and use it as a guitar while the muffins cooked in the oven. The smell hugged around our bodies, and brought us together. When we were baking, we didn’t fight.
Now she was gone, and there I had stood looking at the recipe which I already knew by heart.
My heart had saddened even more when I opened the fridge.
There were no blueberries.
Still walking with my dog, it took me some time until I came up with my minds reasoning for calling today, a strawberry worthy day.
But then I figured it out.
When there were no blueberries, I had cut up another fruit. My parents had always taught me to make do with what you have, and be thankful that you have something.
Strawberries.
It wasn’t merely the fact that I had tried something new. They left me feeling different. Feeling fresh, rejuvenated, like life really did have a purpose.
A little red fruit had helped me move on.
And with twelve strawberry muffins, neatly cooling on a rack.