Remembrance

My mother passed away seven years ago today.

I wrote about it last year, which you can read here.

Funny thing, I had almost forgotten that this is the anniversary of her death. I have so much going on right now that it was far from my mind.

And then I ate a cookie.

My in-laws are away, and I was fetching their mail and newspaper. After I carried it into their house, I opened the pantry door and filched a cookie.

A Little Debbie Oatmeal Cookie, to be exact.

I couldn't remember the last time I had one of those. I peeled the wrapper and bit into it, feeling the creamy insides and the oatmeal cookie outside. Yum, my mouth said.

I call these cookies "granddaddy cookies" because my grandfather carried one to work with him in his lunch pail every day.

He was a warehouse foreman for Kroger in Salem. He worked there nearly 30 years. He must have worked from 7-4, if that is a shift, because he was always home at 4:30 p.m., at which time my grandmother had dinner on the table.

Granddaddy cookies were special treats. We weren't supposed to eat them. But if you had a need, like, say, you'd been beaten up by a young cousin or your favorite toy had broken, you could swing a Granddaddy cookie.

I can remember sitting on Grandma's lap, blubbering my little girl's heart out over some misdeed. "Sweetie, what can Grandma do to make you feel better," she'd say, rocking me gently, my head against her breast. I listened to her heart beat and the song she hummed in her throat. Sobbing, of course, with my thumb in my mouth.

And inevitably when she asked the question, I'd point toward the blue container where the Little Debbies hid. A Granddaddy cookie would soon be forthcoming, and all would be right in my world again.

I remembered all this as I headed home, eating my stolen cookie, and of course in the remembering, I thought of my mother, and then recalled the date.

Fate must've wanted to remind me, or I'd have never opened that pantry.