Dear Suitors,
I don’t understand why more of you don’t bring me cookies. Cookies, more than perfume or flowers, are the quintessential hug after you have gone.
Cookies are the smile after a scraped knee, the congratulations on sticking the landing, the high five for an “A.”
Cookies are Christmas and Halloween and the curled up on the sofa with hot cocoa after shoveling. Cookies are long hugs and the brush of corduroy. Cookies, even when hard, soften to the tongue like caramel.
Cookies hold up in the heat. Cookies, even when shattered, make a scrumptious topping. Cookies fit easily in a briefcase, a backpack, a pocketbook, a shirt pocket, the palm of the hand.
Cookies are giggles, slipped out of cellophane and shared in the closet between two friends who now share a secret. Cookies are sitting before the fireplace with my children. Cookies are counting the seconds between lightning strikes with only one bite for every roll of thunder.
More than flowers or perfume, cookies remind me of all the things I need to remember most.
Some may want diamonds and some may want Caribbean vacations; some may want fancy cars or your last name after their name. But I want cookies that are like a hug after you’ve gone.
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