Last week my mirror broke. I started wondering, oh no, seven years is a long time. When does it start? I laughed and told myself that even if there is truth in it, I choose not to believe it.

Am I superstitious?

I try not to be. That is probably the most honest answer.

You see, I believe in God, and I believe we are not supposed to be superstitious. But I also believe my Lord is supernatural and beyond mortal comprehension. During the years I worked as a massage therapist, I studied many Eastern philosophies and found that, in my opinion, they are not far off. My Mama has a quote that I am partial to: “Man is merely stumbling onto God’s creation.” Bam, Mama. Well said. 

For someone who claims not to be superstitious, I do have one rather embarrassing exception.

The omen changed my relationship status. I once was happily single. Now, I am in a committed relationship. Almost every day I wonder, should I be with it today?

Yes, you read that right. I am madly in love with a thing.

I should be on that reality show “My Strange Addiction.” You guys, their tangy flavor, their crispy crunch, the thickness of each morsel have me yearning for more.

BBQ protein chips are perhaps one of man’s greatest inventions.

They are found at health food stores. Made with bone broth, eggs, and chicken. Good ingredients, right? Except for that dern processed factor. So they are a pleasure that only becomes guilty in my lack of control.

Portion size depends entirely on how many bags I have in the cupboard.

Over time, though, I began to notice something. The kind of small pattern people start to call an omen. One of those strange little happenings that seems to prove itself true more often than not.

If the chips appear, it must mean they are to disappear.

First, the bags seem to know they must be guarded. You cannot merely rip them open. They require tools. Scissors, to be exact, which is why I keep a pair nearby. As I begin the careful cut, the drooling sometimes commences. Occasionally I have to pause, wipe my chin, and regain my composure before returning to the task at hand.

I don’t just start eating. I gaze at them for a moment. There is a small sadness knowing the full bag will soon be devoured. I start slowly. The tart‑and‑sweet crispy crunch lands perfectly in my mouth. I chew carefully, trying to make this moment last.

Then the sacred moment turns on me.

The chips vanish. 

The bag becomes nothing more than a hollow reminder of what it once contained.

Wait.

I look inside.

And there they lie at the bottom.

A small pile of crumbs made just for my finger.