Broken Cookies

SHE HANDED ME THE MONEY.
“REACH UP, NOW. PAY THE LADY,” MAMA SAID.
WE STOOD BEHIND THE BAKERY
AT THE BACK DOOR WHERE THEY SOLD THE DAY OLD BREAD.

THE LADY HANDED DOWN A BOX
ALL TIED UP WITH RED TWINE.
BACK IN THE CAR, WE BROKE THE STRING.
SUDDENLY, WE SHARED EVERYTHING.

BROKEN COOKIES,
A GLORIOUS BOX OF BROKEN COOKIES.
I WAS FOUR AND SHE WAS THIRTY-FIVE--
THE LUCKIEST LITTLE GIRLS ALIVE.
SKIPPING LUNCH, FEASTING ON
BROKEN COOKIES.

WE LAUGHED AND LICKED OUR FINGERS.
GREEN ICING, POWDERED SUGAR, MARMALADE,
EVERY SPRINKLE, EVERY FROSTING,
EVERY NUT AND FRUIT AND FLAVOR THAT THEY MADE.

NEXT WEEK, SHE WOULDN’T TAKE ME THERE.
SHE SAID, “HONEY, WE’RE NOT POOR.
HERE YOU GO, A NICE, BIG ONE.”
OH, GEE, THAT WASN’T ANY FUN.

BROKEN COOKIES,
A GLORIOUS BOX OF BROKEN COOKIES.
I WAS FOUR AND SHE WAS THIRTY-FIVE,
BUT I KNEW WHAT MADE ME FEEL ALIVE.
AFTER LUNCH, I NEEDED THOSE
BROKEN COOKIES.

NOW, I’M GROWN AND ON MY OWN.
MY JOB’S BEEN DOWNSIZED AND
THE WORK HAS GONE TO INDIA.
BUT IF I HAVE FUN
MAKING BOTH ENDS MEET,
WHEN MY LIFE GETS STICKY
IT CAN STAY SWEET
LIKE A GREAT, BIG BOX OF
BROKEN COOKIES
A GLORIOUS BOX OF
BROKEN COOKIES.

copyright Annie Dinerman all rights reserved