Peanut Butter Miracles by the Sea

Last night I dreamed my family and I lived in a tiny coastal village, our house perched beside a sea cave forever clogged with sunburned tourists stretched across the rocks like decorative seals. My days there resembled my current life—morning workout, lunch, a restorative nap, rising around two. But at three o’clock sharp, duty called. I had to meet a melancholy, androgynous thirteen-year-old girl at the cave to help her rebuild her self-worth.

We always met at the cave’s entrance, where an old wooden table stood like an altar, its surface coated in a strange patina of green wax, copper dust, and faint streaks of gold. I would stare at the empty table, and in the way dreams obey their own physics, a full case of peanut-butter protein bars would appear out of nothing. The girl and I sold them to the tourists, a ritual commerce that somehow fortified her confidence. They weren’t really protein bars—they were confidence bars.

The ritual never wavered. Every day at three. I wasn’t resentful or thrilled. I accepted the task with a quiet, dutiful calm. The community expected it. My family expected it. I expected it. The girl’s fragile self-esteem felt unacceptable to me, and the fact that I could conjure a case of bars each afternoon made me responsible for using the gift. No bragging rights, no noble self-sacrifice monologue—just a job that grounded me and gave my life shape.

I didn’t understand why selling bars to strangers healed her spirit, nor why the universe chose me as its peanut-butter conduit. But clarity wasn’t required. My role was simple: show up, help her, and let the mystery stay mysterious.