Member-only story
As I stand at the sink licking blueberry muffin batter off my fingers I gaze out at our majestic Autumn Blaze maple tree in our back yard shedding the last of its crimson leaves while the wind picks up and the sun nestles behind a cloud turning the sky a gunmetal gray.
I rarely bake, but my husband loves blueberry muffins and I can handle a mix. Just.
And baking, whether from scratch or a mix, is a cozy thing, is it not? A sign of love, you might say.
“Here you go. Dig into those, honey.”
One of the squirrels that I regularly feed scampers down the tree and perches on his hind legs as he looks up at the window where I stand.
I waggle my fingers at him (or her) as I usually do which is a sign that he will soon be getting his fair share of the peanuts I toss out in fistfuls, rain or shine.
Oddly, he doesn’t react, doesn’t scamper toward the door leading to the yard as he always does, yet his eyes are bright with anticipation, and something akin to “hope,” knowing that the very strange, very tall animal on two legs will come through, once again.
He turns away and hops through the thick carpet of leaves, fat tail twitching as he searches for sustenance for the long winter ahead.
