This poem is from the archive and still one of my favorites for reasons in no way related to literary quality. It was a decade ago. I was babysitting for my three littlest grandchildren and they wanted Oreo cookies. I didn’t have any because whenever I do they disappear within hours due to my complete lack of willpower.
A discussion of our favorite cookies ensued. I told them my favorite was “windmill” cookies. I explained how delicious they taste and how impressive they look (which is some serious Dutch awesomeness).
But, no, neither taste nor appearance were the cause of my fondness. You see, when I was a little girl, my dad would always pack two windmill cookies with his lunch.
I was in sixth grade when my parents were divorced.
I was 23 years old when my dad died on Christmas morning.
Because there are not a lot of memories of him, each snippet of dad is infinitely precious to me.
The following week, I stopped at my daughter Mollie’s to drop off a pipe wrench. She texted me to be quiet and leave it on the kitchen counter because everyone was napping, including Maggie’s son Roland who was visiting for a few days.
I tiptoed into the house and was met by Roland (7) and Presley (6) who were not napping at all. They whispered how they couldn’t sleep and were too old for naps. They also said they had a present for me. I had to close my eyes.
It’s windmill cookies Granny because they are your favorite because of your dad!
There’s a suit of armor I put on before I think about people I love who have died, but I didn’t get the chance to properly prepare myself.
Roland said, “Granny, I never saw you cry before. It touches my heart.”
And they both hugged me as I knelt on the kitchen floor crying, kissing the box of cookies, grateful to be so loved by these two beautiful little souls.
A month later, I gift-wrapped a box of windmill cookies for each of my grandchildren and delivered them with this poem.
