A Cookie

I've been out in the kitchen, dipping those Ginger Thins in milk. That's not my kind of thing to do, but it was Wayne's, and I know he would dip these cookies. I am quite sure he would like them; they are exactly in the middle between his two favorite kinds of cookies: no taste cookies and ginger snaps. And they are the kind of cookie you can just keep eating, if you're not careful.

I have just eaten too many. I didn't count and probably should have. Thank goodness I have had sense enough to stop. Wayne didn't always have such good sense. He would just keep eating cookies until all were gone, or maybe all but one or two, which to me seemed a rotten thing to do. Leave one cookie. Well, not rotten, just a bit of a cheat. He might, and sometimes did, speak of having eaten too many cookies, and once in while you could detect a slight sense of shame. Slight, though.

Our son Richard dipped his double stuff Oreos, which he asked me to bring him "from the States" because the ones they have there in Saskatoon are just not right.

Richard may have thought of his dad as he dipped his cookies, but more than once he wished out loud for his dad to be there last weekend, so that he, Wayne, could take Richard and Sarah's baby boy in his arms and give him a good looking over. That would have been a good thing. Penelope, now nearly two, never had a few minutes on her Grandpa Wayne's knee either, and she could use it, too. Just because.

And so could John and Charlie and Clayton and Peter and Caroline.

Almost everything can make me think of him, you know. That's just the way of it.