Sweet Deprived

Edgar dragged my reluctant self into the bakery that morning. I knew I should have stayed outside and given him the coins to make a purchase but he convinced me with a wink and a firm hand tugging on my waistcoat. A mother can only make so many excuses for her child.

The bell rang as the door opened. The sight of colorful pastries and cakes lined the counter like bouquets of florals and little presents waiting to be opened. “Mommy, this one!” Edgar pointed to a cupcake with yellow frosting and a chocolate cookie sitting on of the top. The grin on the child’s face was almost unbearable as a bit of drool dripped down his cheek in anticipation.

I stood there and blinked at the child. I was deprived.

Two of my five cherished senses had abandoned me long ago. And in place like this it was an awful reminder of that fact.

Imagine diving into a lake on a chilly fall day and feeling nothing but a breeze hit your skin. Or maybe the rain has just subsided and the sun hits the droplets in the sky just right but all you see is gray. Perhaps you’re sitting in the theater watching a powered face lady with her mouth hanging open, but all you hear is silence.

The cakes smelled of fresh air. Pastries tasted of water. I had forgotten what sweet was. I was numb to the idea. With no sense of smell or taste, I gained no joy from the food I ate. I never ate out of pleasure but of sustenance for my body to continue another day.

I nodded to the boy with a thin smile on my lips. Though I would not find delight in the cakes and pastries of the bakery, the joy in my child’s eye was enough to satisfy me.

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