Snow Cookies - Short Story

The porch swing swayed gently in the wind, her light weight no longer anchoring it down. The creaking a sigh so soft she could barely hear it. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. There was much that her ears had missed these days—the chirping of the morning birds, the rustling of the leaves in the breeze, the pitter-patter of the rain kissing the window sills.

That didn’t bother her. She had spent her life chasing butterflies, singing with birds, and dancing in the rain. But even a lifetime by his side was not enough. And that was what she missed the most.

The space on her left on the swing stung like the gaping hole in her heart. The warmth that used to radiate from him was replaced by the biting cold of winter air. The hand that used to intertwine with hers, a promise of forever, was now just an arthritis-ridden hand grasping for a phantom.

Closing her eyes, she could almost hear his grumble as he tried to convince her to go inside. She could almost smell his woody scent permeated the air.

He couldn’t understand why she always insisted on risking pneumonia just to see the first flakes drifting from heaven. He couldn’t understand why her eyes lit up when the world was carpeted by white snow as though she woke up in the clouds.

But even if he didn’t understand it, he still humored her. He still wrapped his arm around her to stop her chattering teeth. Teeth that were no longer hers.

A tear threatened to roll down the corner of her winkled eye, but her lips widened instead. How greedy she felt—a lifetime together and yet, she still yearned for more.

For now, memories were enough. She knew that soon, they would be taken from her, too. But not today.

A loud alarm blared, jolting her from her reverie.

Rushing footsteps echoed inside the house. She braced her hands on her knees and slowly shuffled past the doorsteps to see what the commotion was about.

Smoke shrouded the air, veiling the living room. The twinkling lights barely pierced through the haziness. Stifling a cough, she waded further inside. A knot tightened her stomach, a sense of wrongness filled her.

“Grandma! Were you baking cookies?” a female voice cried in between coughs.

Before she could answer, a young woman walked out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of charred lumps.

Her cookies.

Of course she was baking cookies. Cookies that she would later coat with frost and dust with sugar so fine, it clung to your fingers. He would always say that Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without her snow cookies.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. Remorse was all she could feel. “I forgot that I had them in the oven.”

The young woman laid down the tray and held her hands. Her hazel eyes shone like his, but they were brimming with concern now. Her small lips tightened, but not unkindly.

“Maybe you shouldn’t cook anymore, grandma. It’s dangerous.”

Another thing time had taken from her. She looked at the Christmas tree sitting in the center of the room, the ornaments hanging from the branches. Even with her aged nose, she could still detect the smell of pine in the air.

Her gaze turned to the blackened tray.

Credit: Northern Rose

What would Christmas be without her cookies? What would he eat?

A squeeze turned her attention back to her granddaughter.

“I’ll bake the cookies. You gave me the recipe a few years ago, remember?” She nodded along anyway, though she didn’t quite remember.

The young woman perked up. “You can help me in the kitchen. Tell me if I’m doing it right. Come on.”

She let the young woman lead her to the kitchen. The smoke had dissipated almost entirely now, revealing the marble counter that he painstakingly installed all those years ago.

Her trembling fingers traced the cold marble as if she could conjure him up once more. But life didn’t work that way.

She hoped he was waiting for her patiently and not glancing at his watch every few minutes, brows pinched together. He always hated waiting for her.

The afternoon wore on. The sun ambled its way across the sky to the edge of the horizon, leaving a trail of golden streaks painted across the slowly darkening canvas.

The magic hour was here. She peered through the kitchen window and smiled. She always told him that one day, she would glue wings of feathers and wax onto her back and flew into the sun like Icarus, son of Daedalus.

He would grunt and sigh in exasperation, but his eyes couldn’t hide the amusement. 

The glow shimmered around her granddaughter, turning her olive complexion to gold. As if she could sense the eyes on her, the young woman looked up at the woman and grinned.

So much like him. Her heart tightened.

The young woman wiped her hands on her apron. “The family should be here soon,” she announced.

And soon, they did arrive.

Her children with their own in tow brightened up her room, making it more vivacious than ever. The laughter and giggling rang like sleigh bells of this festive season. They crowded around her, making her heart overflowed with love.

What a life she had lived.

Her growing great-grandchildren devoured the food as soon as it was placed on the table, earning a scowl by their parents. She didn’t mind it one bit. She had had many turkeys in so many years; it was high time for the younglings to reign.

“I’m so happy that all of you are here,” she said, her voice wavering, unsteady with time. “I feel so blessed. And I know that your father and grandfather would feel the same way.”

Tears rolled down a few faces. Sniffles rang in the air.

“I love you, mama,” her daughter threw her arms around her and said into her silver hair. “Merry Christmas.”

It was a merry Christmas, indeed. She was excited. Just like when she was a little girl, she was excited for midnight of Christmas Eve when the magic happened.

Sitting on the sofa in the living room, she waited. She knew the cookies and milk sat where they should. The woodfire popped and crackled in the inferno—the only sound keeping her company.

Her eyelids drooped. Before long, she surrendered to exhaustion.

When she woke up, she hurried to check her stocking. Her feet shuffled like they hadn’t shuffled in years.

Inside, her fingers brushed against the surface. Her gift.

She carried it close to her heart and returned to her favorite spot in the house. The fairy lights twinkled in the room like jewels in the early dawn.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she took a whiff of the envelope. It smelled just like him.

When the first letter arrived on Christmas, she was shell-shocked. It was a miracle beyond her belief. Even in his demise, he still watched over her.

A part of her knew there was a rational explanation to this, but she refused to entertain it. She was in the clouds, close to heaven, and her lover visited her on the most magical night of the year. That, she believed wholeheartedly.

As if fueled by the strength of all lovers in the history of humankind, her hands steadied as she plucked the letter out of its nest. 

Credit: Food Network

“My dearest snow cookie.”