This was a year ago now. You were on the sofa, in the corner with a pillow tucked against your thigh, and your head was upright – a once simple act that was no longer commonplace. I’d snuck out to the garage, as I do, to raid the freezer, to snag one or two of mom’s frozen chocolate chip cookies. I’d broken the seal on this one with the always satisfying first bite just as I crossed the threshold back into the family room, and held the remaining two thirds of the chilly cookie in my right hand. You saw it. I don’t know how, but from across the room you saw it, and with wide wanting eyes, you reached out your hand.
I have never been happier to give up a cookie. Kneeling down by your side, I helped you take your first bite. You were happy, a kid again, participating in a secret mission to steal. A cookie heist, right under mom’s nose.
And then I returned to the garage and to the freezer and to the faded metal Christmas tins she’s used for years, and brought you back a jelly thumbprint cookie, one little way mom continues to leave a mark on us all. Through food, her love can always be found and seen.
I didn’t know they’d become a favorite of yours, the jellies. You were always a chocolate chip man, like me. There’s so much I didn’t know about you, Greg, like why and when your cola habit switched from Pepsi to Coke??
And like Dad, there’s so much I’ll never know.
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