A Piece Of A Cookie

I spent the day with my family.

I drank beer. I laughed. I had fun.

My aunt, the one who always baked for every family gathering, passed away last month. Today, my uncle found a bag of her cookies in the freezer. I don’t have a word for what that felt like.

To taste something made by someone who is no longer here is different than tasting it while they’re alive. It holds weight. It asks something of you.

I noticed a subtle lemon flavor I had never noticed before. Maybe it was always there. Maybe I was just finally paying attention.

I didn’t take a whole cookie. That didn’t feel right.

I didn’t walk away without one either. That didn’t feel right.

So I broke off a piece.

I took one bite. I thought of her. That felt like the only option that made sense.

We played games. We laughed. We watched the kids open gifts. Life moved forward in the way it always does, imperfect, tender, stitched together with moments that don’t cancel out the grief, but sit beside it.

Later, my ex came over after work to spend time with everyone. I typed wife at first, then had to go back and erase it. That hurt more than I expected.

We realized today that spending the holidays with each other’s families is harder than we thought. Harder in ways we couldn’t have predicted.

I wanted to melt into her.

Wrap my arms around her.

Kiss her forehead.

I wanted to ask if even a small part of her wondered whether it could still work, whether there was a version of us that hadn’t reached its ending yet.

But I didn’t ask. Because I know that isn’t fair.

My heart is hurting.

I love her.

I am struggling.

Some days, life doesn’t feel fair at all.

And tonight, all I can do is hold that truth the way I held that cookie:

carefully,

reverently,

in pieces.