Stale Cookies

Dear Children,

It’s June 21st, [redacted]. I have a box of frosted oatmeal cookies that have been in my room for over 6 months. It’s 1000% stale, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. Not yet.

As I’m getting older, I notice the many ways I express my emotions. I’ve never been a “show-er”of emotions in the normal ways. In fact, I get irritated when I’m expected to express an emotion in a specific way. Why must my anger look like this? Or my happiness look like that? Sometimes, my happiness is silent. I am silent. No smile, nothing. Just stillness, and an intense feeling of joy.

So, these cookies hiding behind my bookshelf represent grief. I miss my grandpa. I actually don’t even know his name outside of “grandpa”. This would be your great grandfather. The most amazing grandpa a girl could ask for. He bought us ice cream. Told the best Ananse stories before he put us to bed. Tickled us so long until we farted while laughing to which he would hold his nose and shame us. He liked to play little tricks on us and get us to smile in all the ways he knew how. From a young age, it was extremely obvious grandpa loved being a grandpa. Myself and my two sisters were his world. I can’t believe I can’t remember his name? He had a sweet tooth and I remember him through food and gallywood the most. He made us warm turkey and lettuce sandwiches (the type that the bread stuck on the roof of your mouth), drove us to Dairy Queen in his gold car, made the best jam sandwiches with orange marmalade, and ordered us Chinese Food. The last time I saw Grandpa was 2008. I think he died in 2012.

I can’t believe I can’t remember his name?! I’m testing names in my mouth to taste a familiar one, but nothing. Arnold? Peter? Kwame?

Mommy woke me up before church and told me Grandpa died. I can’t remember much of a conversation. I loved my grandpa deeply, yet I never cried over this loss of joy in my life. I think it was because he was so far away.

Was it Paul? Paul sounds close.

He died in Ghana, a place I had never been to at that point in time. We never spoke on the phone after we moved in 2008 and he later moved to Ghana. The loss of my grandpa feels extremely distant, yet I see how it shows up in strange ways. Now, the stale frosted oatmeal cookies exist in my home because those were the only cookies he bought and therefore we loved them just as we loved him. Ever since I made my first dollar, I almost always bought a pack. Never finished a pack (I’m lying), but I replace it often.

Maybe it was George? Or Frank?

I buy orange marmalade in every country I move to. I bought one last year that is still in my fridge in Ghana after being gone for almost a year. A piece of my grandfather behind my bookshelf in Atlanta. A piece of my grandpa under my bed in Berkeley. A piece of my grandfather in my fridge in East Legon. This is how my grief decided to show itself.

I see how the people I love fill unique shapes in my life. Shapes that demand to be maintained even after the person leaves. When I travel, I buy candles to fill my new space. This time, I bought candles that smell like my ex. Crazy? Perhaps. But, why do things have to be all bad v all good? I extract the good when I can and his good was his smell. So warm and extremely masculine which now fills the rooms of my house (note to self Night Out TjMaxx).

Was his name David? David doesn’t sound right. I think it started with a P.

I buy candy when I miss [redacted]. I don’t even eat it more times (lying again I practically lick the plastic), but I want her so I need it. I drink henny + coke when I miss [redacted]. I cook when I miss my mommy or wear my funky jewellery -- a continuous ode to her. I wear my hair in a messy bun when I miss [redacted]. I like to morph myself into the shape of those I long for. Squeeze myself into their form and hope to get a taste, whiff, feel of them.

I remembered Grandpa today because I can’t find orange marmalade or oatmeal frosted cookies here. I’ve looked everywhere. I might just bake it and let it get stale in my room and let the jam sit in my fridge for a year again. My grief requires rigid obedience to this pattern of behavior. See the cookies, buy the cookies. See the marmalade, buy the marmalade.

P.S. Joseph. My grandpa’s name was/(is?) Joseph. He went by Joe.

I love you my babies!

Best,

PEN