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That was the year grandma got sick. We would visit more often. More opportunities for larceny.

After two years I'd eaten it all of the cookie I'd crumbled. And though, that year there was no more cold lemonade in the glass picture, two cookies remained, nestled in white waxy paper cuffs.

myrmepropagandist 2y ago

In my child's imagination they were counted, scrutinized. I agonized over how to proceed. I arrived at shaving crumbs from the back of each cookie with a butterknife that I would wash secretly in the tiny powder room, convinced someone would do a forensic test for cookie residue.

I never ate those last two cookies. I never had to grapple with an explanation or a means of disposing of the empty tin. So, in my mind, I still feel like I could just go back and find them.

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Discussion

myrmepropagandist 2y ago

The house is still there, like she is still there. As if that world has not vanished or transformed into some unrecognizable place of unexplained ruins. The trash of strangers and their untold secrets. No. No, those cookies are still waiting for me.

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