A Story With a Twist of Lemon

Sometimes I feel so tangled—overwhelmed, isolated, disconnected from the Creator. A numbness rests on my mind, as if I could feel it sitting on the tip of my tongue. Sour.

And yet, the most beautiful memories of my childhood were always like this. My mind was used to working through that sharp scent; my sentences would flow endlessly, even when their bitterness sent a shiver through me. There was something strangely captivating about that sour trace inside me. I could read the color of happiness glowing on people’s faces like sunlight.

But, like everyone else, I grew up. I changed. Maybe I grew so accustomed to growing that my soul became too heavy to bear the intensity of that taste—and I forgot. Those sour moments once meant something too; they could plant smiles on people’s faces.

Then one day, I found a child among old, faded photographs. In her hand was a small yellow world—her face sour, yet her eyes shone with a joy that mirrored life itself. I saw that child, and a feeling awoke inside me. I wasn’t who I once was, but my past felt so close.

I reached into the spring of life and picked my bright yellow world. As the bitter scent drifted from my nose to my heart, I began to understand. When I was a child, life was simple. Bitterness would melt away like honey, soothed by the lullabies of parents.

But as I grew, living became harder. The further we drift from innocence, the more we forget our essence—and every feeling starts to ache. We curse the emotions left from the child within us; we dismiss them as weaknesses.

When I realized this, I looked at the old memories resting in my hands. I poured my compassion into them, softening their sharp edges with the delicate soul of sugar—stroking them gently. Then, looking at my creation, I spoke to the part of me that had been waiting all along:

“You gave me back my soul, and I baked you a cake.”