last week, after our dance lesson, Michael and i stopped at a little market in our neighborhood for some things for dinner. we waited in line at the checkout, right next to the cookie section, and i was reminded, again, of the windmill cookies i bought over the summer.
when i was little, my Grandma Bev always had windmill cookies in her big glass cookie jar in the kitchen (well, actually, she alternated cookies with those old-fashioned Charms lollipops—it was a win-win situation) and even though i don’t remember particularly enjoying them (they were too sophisticated for my Oreo-and-Chips-Ahoy palate), i always associated them with her, my beloved Grandma, who passed away far too early and just as i was really getting to know her.
sometime in june or july, i was in that same market in the neighborhood, waiting in line to check out, gazing at the cookie section (per my usual) and i spotted a package of Archway Windmill Cookies. i hadn’t laid eyes on them in probably 20 years—i’d actually forgotten about them until that moment. it had been one of those days, i was stressed or sad or out of sorts about something, and seeing those cookies lifted my spirits.
oddly enough, there was only one package of windmill cookies on the shelf. there were no others anywhere, and it was mixed in with other brands—totally out of place. i believed it was—embarrassing as this is to admit—some sort of sign. Grandma Bev was reminding me that she was still around, still with me, always looking out for me.
without hesitation, i grabbed the package from the shelf and put it in my basket. i had to have the windmill cookies. for a few weeks they sat on my kitchen counter, unopened, a comforting sight. eventually, because i thought they might go bad exposed to sunlight on a daily basis, i stuck them in the cabinet above.
i was still trying to decide what to do with them. i’m in possession of Grandma Bev’s cookie jar now, and thought maybe i’d put the cookies in there for old time’s sake but for the time being, i was satisfied just knowing i had what might’ve been the last remaining package of Archway Windmill Cookies in the world—meant solely for me, a means of remembering Grandma Bev.
so, in the cabinet they stayed.
now back to last week, in line at the market, same cookie aisle. i scanned the shelves quickly, looking for another package of windmill cookies—i check every time i’m in there, to either prove or disprove my theory that the cookies were a sign—and saw everything but.
“it’s so funny,” i said to Michael. “i’ve never seen those cookies again.”
“what cookies?”
“the windmill cookies. remember? my grandma?” i launched into the story—thinking i must have told him about it before, he never remembers anything—and halfway through, a distracted look came across his face. i’ve told the cookie story to a few people and they’ve all sort of looked at me kindly and curiously, politely humoring my insanity. i figured he was thinking the same thing so i stopped short.
“everyone thinks i’m crazy when i tell that story,” i sighed.
a few long seconds of silence went by and then he finally said, in a quiet voice, “i ate them.”
“what?”
“i ate the windmill cookies. they’re gone. they’ve been gone. for like two months.”
i truly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“i didn’t know they were off-limits! you never told me,” he said, looking like he might cry. “i’ll buy you another bag, i promise. i’ll find them.”
he apologized profusely our entire walk home, in between shaking his head at himself and muttering things like, “idiot!” i’d be lying if i said a part of me wasn’t very sad about the whole thing—my cookies! my meaningful, symbolic cookies!—i even had a small lump in my throat for a few seconds. (blame my PMS.)
but five minutes later i realized that if my Grandma Bev was still around, she’d be laughing her tush off over the whole thing—first, about the fact that i believed her spirit was somehow entangled with those windmill cookies; and second, that my fiancé had eaten them with abandon one night, completely oblivious to their sentimental value.
Michael gave me a big hug when we got home and put down our grocery bags, and i told him it was OK, it was just a silly sentimental thing. and, really, it doesn’t matter that i don’t have the cookies anymore. i had them for a while, they reminded me of something about my Grandma Bev that i’d forgotten, and brought me comfort when i needed it.
if that’s not divine intervention, what is?
mb
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