cookie love

I remember the time when my brother wouldn’t let me in the house for a cookie. See, at the time, he had the key. When we were younger both of our parents worked, so the older child — my brother, Richie — was in charge. Richie was sole supervisor of torturing me, leaving me with black and blues for days. (Fucker.) I cried. A lot. Like, sobbed. It was sad. I wanted to go into the house badly — for the cookie, for the comfort. Not allowing me into the house, Richie forced me to sit by the door as he rode off on his BMX bike. I cried for a while as I waited for my mother to get home. Her absence made me furious; I wanted to break down that stupid door.

Our door to the house was in the basement; it was finished, as they say, with a huge living room, fully tiled kitchen, and a laundry room. The bedrooms were upstairs plus an extra kitchen (our old one prior to the renovations) where we left our salamanders in the sink (don’t ask) and played Life and Monopoly with our friends. The door was black and white (unlike life) made from a metal where if you scratched your nails on it, it would cause a severe feeling of nausea. Well, for me it did.

As I sat there wiping my tears from my eyes, I was thinking about all those cookies in that house. All the comfort I used to find in food. When anything was upsetting me, my mother would offer a sweet. (I do not advise this since it created a bit of an eating disorder, however, I now have it under control.)

While I was sitting there, I was thinking about all the love that poured out of my mother when she would get home from her lifeless job. I hated her job, but she didn’t; it gave her some power that she just couldn’t hold in the home. So she bought cookies. Lots of cookies. And cake and crappy cereal. I think she purchased these things mostly out of guilt for never being home when I needed her. But, really, all I needed was her love and kindness, and I was lucky to receive it.

We need nothing else. Love is always for the win. Cookies are just a bonus.