Day 16 of 365

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?