Muffin in the Mailbox

A mailbox is no place for an unwrapped dessert, specifically those carelessly plopped on lined paper. But there it was—a muffin—top glistening in rusted darkness. Chocolate chunks stuck out—those tiny mysterious mounds. And after the events of late, they looked more like freshly heaped graves.

I took the muffin, latched the mailbox, wincing as the hinges screeched like the strings of a first-time violinist: bewildered.

The wind picked up then, having its way with my ponytail, and bending the flimsy note.

I trudged up the driveway, tongue clicking at the sight of my daffodils. The wind was bending them, too; petals kneeling at the mercy of the elements. Like the horns of a broken record player, they swayed downward. Dejected.

At least I had seen them before they died.

I took the muffin inside, set it alone on cold marble, and reveled in the ambiguity of it all—which was preferable to emptiness.

To vacancy.

For even amongst the chirps of my three lively children, the silence prevailed.

I sighed, uncrumpling the lined paper that came with the muffin. This must have greatly intrigued the children, who—like all littles—found themselves summoned by the irresistibility of crinkling.

At the patter of their footsteps, I hid the pastry beneath a kitchen towel, offering graham crackers instead.

And wouldn’t you know, those little birds pecked those crackers as contentedly as ever, forgetting the sounds that had brought them there.

Oh, to be so easily stilled.

I waited, flashing them the stock photo smile that always did the job.

My fingernails tapped the countertop like the arrhythmic fall of rain, until (one eternity later), my chickadees wandered away.

I unfolded the grease-stained note, biting my lip as a I scanned seven handwritten words:

“Eat it and you’ll call her here…”

No salutation, no sender. Just the one line, the lumpy-topped treat…and the peculiar urge to shudder.

With a shrug, I picked up the muffin—sinking my teeth into the puffy crest—and just as I eased into its decadence…there was a knock at the door: dainty knuckles.

Small ones paraded to the entryway, and the bite crept down my throat like sawdust in a wet pipe. Coughing, I observed the figure silhouetted through textured glass: tall and thin.

Corralling the children, I turned the knob. It was a gentle tug, but the wind rammed it open, sucker-punching the doorstop.

I stiffened, blinked.

Army green drawstring pants. A purple puffer jacket. On a pixie-cut blonde (with a pixie nose to match).

Karen—?

My mouth hung agape while hers stretched into a well-known smile. Rose lipstick, rectangular teeth. Glowing like a sun-kissed fairy godmother.

But Karen…

She was in the crackley-textured ceramic jar—the one striped with yellows and blues. Not here.

Not on my doorstep.

My mouth was wired shut as the children bounced about like hungry hatchlings, flapping and hugging her knees. Their voices were distant, muffled, while I remained stiff against the wind.

Karen, holding a brown sack with carrots on top, wrapped her fingers around mine (familiar softness, same warmth), and asked if everything was okay.

I nodded, and there was no lie there. Not with the impossible apparition standing on my porch—the baffling juxtaposition to preceding days.

The wind was dying down now.

The air grew still.

Karen came inside, sat on the couch. Pillow tucked behind her back, she tousled her hair—the cut was “never right”—and asked if I had heard from Daphne lately.

Lips pulled down, I shook my head.

No, Karen. You are the only mother I have left.

Except this time, I said it out loud…and why?

Because I had never said it before. And since I hadn’t said it, I’d been forced to sprinkle the sentiments with dirt into a grave.

So, I did say it—all the things I should have said before—while Karen listened with soft blue eyes; the same gaze that had earned my trust on day one. Because hers was a gaze of wisdom. And it wasn't because she was twice my age. No, her wisdom resulted from pushing the borders of mediocrity—coupled with the payoff of challenges won.

As I lingered in that familiar gaze, the children played at our feet—blissfully forgetting how just last week they had sat in the pews, watching me intercept the unruly drops determined to spot my funeral dress.

When I had finished the lament, Karen held out her hand—asking for the note—and we both knew which one she meant.

So, I fetched it for her, eyes widening at what was written there now. Not only one line, but two had appeared, the second materializing as mysteriously as she.

“Eat it and you’ll call her here.

Now make one of your own…”

I looked to my friend for answers, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she stood quietly, went into the pantry, and returned with a purple apron for me, a wildflower one for herself. Then—appraising the blots of emotion on my blouse—she laughed, wondering aloud if the apron had come too late. But I shook my head. I was done barricading tears.

Still smiling, Karen pulled an index card from her pocket. It was a recipe for cake: News that made my chittering birds scamper about, zealous for the worm.

Then, as if on cue, we regarded the clock above the stove. Our gazes met again, and we shook our heads, rolling our eyes at the rules it implied. Because damned be piano lessons, damned be dinner-prep, too. The clouds had scooted aside, the trees were still, and if nothing else made sense today, that recipe card did. In fact, it made perfect sense, and therefore, we were baking carrot cake.

So, with floured aprons, sugared tongues, carrot peel countertops, and walnut-dusted cutting boards, we reveled in the elbow-bumping familiarity of two simple women in their element. There was no mention of the past, nor fret for the future. It was only us, the recipe card, and a bond that roped us together in sweet simplicity.

Then, when round pans had emerged from the oven, we peeked out the window, smiling at the sight of perky daffodils. They were welcoming a car up the driveway.

And in came the husbands, sighing at the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar. Beaming at the sight of their flour-cheeked brides. There were long kisses for wives, tickled tummies for kids, tight squeezes among friends, and a moist cake for dinner.

Nobody mentioned the impossibility of this gathering, nor the impropriety of dessert before dinner. And not a word—ne'er a thought—was wasted on the worries of dear Karen’s pesky gluten intolerance. Because this was a most excellent cake—the best in the world—crafted with wholesome goodness and stuffed with a wealth of nature’s sustenance.

So, we sat, feasting on a bounty of cake, stories, and the simple bliss of forgotten cares—of bitter goodbyes. We filled our souls and bellies until our stomachs were near to bursting below the weight of our swelling hearts.

Then, when just one slice of cake remained, Karen asked for the note again. I pulled it from my apron pocket, handing it over without question.

Once again, we discovered an additional line had appeared in the message.

“Eat it and you’ll call her here.

Now make one of your own.

It’s vital that you pass it on…”

My eyes turned to the final slice of cake, knowing what must be done.

But who would I give it to?

I looked at Karen, whose raised eyebrows conveyed that the choice was mine.

A hush fell over the dinner table, and even the children were silent, large lashes fluttering in anticipation. I looked at my youngest—cheeks rosy as the day she was born—and something moved inside me, a feeling that was almost sore. It was that wonderful kind of ache, like silk thread pulling at each heartbeat; filling the bosom with rich honey and rose petals.

And I knew what that feeling was. It was a mother’s pure love—a mark that no time, space, nor death can remove.

And that was when I knew who the last slice of cake was meant for.

So, I stood, extending my hand to Karen, and off we went—arm in arm—kissing our husbands with the promise of a swift return.

We took the final slice of cake, making the drive across town to a simple little house framed by a fieldstone wall—the home of a young family from church.

When we arrived at the quaint little dwelling, we frowned, saddened anew by the recollection that this mother's babe had been lost on the day of his birth—just moments before departing the womb.

And the pair had never said goodbye.

Karen held the cake in her lap: disposable plate with a scrap of paper placed neatly beside a bare slice. Raisins poked out of it, too—in small mysterious lumps.

I unfolded the original note, meaning to copy the words. But instead, I found the fourth and final line of the message—a phrase that made the world around me blur.

“Eat it and you’ll call her here.

Now make one of your own.

It’s vital that you pass it on.

It's time to let her go.”

I turned to Karen, desperate for retort, and speechless in the finality of those fateful words.

But Karen only nodded, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun.

My heart began a soundless drumroll, while silently, I copied the first line onto my own paper. I used my neatest cursive, gentlest hand, desperate to pen those seven words for as long as humanly possible.

Then, as though stiffened by age, I took the cake from Karen. Solemnly. Reluctantly. Tearfully.

Seeing there wasn't a mailbox outside, I carried the plate to the house, and with heavy steps to the porch, placed it on a pedestal beside the door.

Cake on a column.

When I turned back, Karen was waiting beside the car. Her eyes were distant, lips pursed in the line they formed when she was close to tears. And when she told me it was time—just as the note had said—the wind picked up again. A bitter swirl.

I went to Karen, and she pulled me in against the chill, something she had done only once before. It was the night I told her my secrets; details I kept from the world…because the world never cared.

My heart had wept that night—just as the tears flowed now—aching for the mother who had abandoned me as a child. And aching for this new mother who had died last week; taken before I could say goodbye.

In that moment, I was a girl again—pigtailed and baby-toothed—clutching her mother with miniature claws. Desperate despite her promises to return.

But then, as I held this new mother to my chest, breathing in her final moments, she whispered sweet comforts into my ear. With them came the promise we would meet again, a tuneless song that was the only lullaby I’d ever been sung.

And I believed her. Because while I hadn’t said goodbye to Karen in this life, I was saying it now—in whatever reality this was. And if that were possible, then a new realm filled with departed loved ones didn’t seem too unlikely.

My pigtails fell away, and I stood tall—eye to eye with Karen now. Woman to woman.

So, I lifted my chin, taking one final look at that oval face framed by wisps of blonde, and I laughed—a thing that was as much sorrow as it was joy. Karen beamed at the sound, the solace of a thousand mothers warming me to the depths.

Goodbye, Dear Mother.

Karen reached around for my ponytail, ran her fingers through the length of it, and rested it on my shoulder. I shuddered at the gentleness of her touch, and she smiled with eyes that expressed every sentiment in the universe.

Then, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear, along with one final stroke of my cheek, she was gone.

And I stood in my driveway once again—hand on the door of an empty mailbox—while my daffodils stood tall, horns blazing in the still afternoon.