Cookie Crumbles — a short story

It is 5:20 in the afternoon. I look out the window and see such a picturesque scene.  The sun is just about to set; and the sky is painted in hues of pinks and oranges — my favorite colors.  I take a picnic blanket and carefully spread it on my bedroom floor by the window.  Like a painting, my two-by-two-feet window shows the most spectacular colors.  The leaves on the maple and persimmon trees are now mostly fiery red with dots of yellow, orange and green.  I try to soak up as much of the fall colors because I know they will again be coated in white in no time.  

 

I don’t like white.  It just feels lonely, and a bit scary.

 

I look at our cupboard for something to munch on for my indoor picnic.  There is a jar of flour, a bag of biscuits, and a can of Mrs. Wakefield chocolate chip cookies.  It’s a childhood favorite.

 

This is the same brand of chocolate chip cookies my mom used to bring home from the Winter Market.  I remember the first time she brought one home in December of 1995 when my older sister Maven had her birthday.  The can was the size of three Coca-Cola bottles combined.  Inside were cookies, double the size of my 5-year-old palm, with a generous serving of chocolate chunks.  Every bite was a delight. 

 

While eating, my sister thought of a way for us to enjoy the cookies until the following week. 

 

“Trish,” she said, “Let’s eat these cookies with the honey milk mom gives us before we sleep.  We can share one cookie every night.”

 

She broke the cookie and gave one half to me.  We took as little bites of our halves as possible to see how long a single cookie could last between the two of us while laughing and sharing stories.

 

“Don’t you think it’s more fun to eat from the same cookie?”

 

True enough, this has allowed us to savor the cookie to the utmost level.  We called it our ‘cookie bond’.  Oh, those were the days!

 

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind blows the window open.  It is so cold. The sky turns purplish black. I rush back to close the window and see something fall from the sky.  Is it rain? No, I don’t seem to hear any droplets.  Oh no, it is the first snowfall.  Winter has come.

 

Every time I see snow, it brings me back to one winter day in 2000 when I was 10 and Maven was 12. Mom used to take us to the Winter Market. Back then, I loved winter.   All the trees, the cobbled streets, the rooftops were covered in soft plush white snow.  And the market was lively with all the lights, food and activities.  During our trip to the market, my mom would give us 5 dollars each and allow us to buy whatever we wanted.  We felt quite independent because she gave us time to look around by ourselves as long as we made sure to meet her by the main entrance after an hour.

 

That evening, I asked my sister to go to a nearby play area with me.  There was an ‘off-limits’ board posted on a wooden gate that intrigued me.  Behind it seemed like a nice large park where we could run and slide and play in the snow as much as we wanted.  There were no people to shoo us away, so I went in.  I ran ahead of my sister as I normally did.  She was always the slower, more careful one. 

 

I heard an odd distant sound, like something was breaking, but thought it was the sound of twigs snapping as Maven made her way to me.  But then, I heard it again. It was louder this time, like a bag of walnuts being crushed under a hammer.  I looked around and saw a crack on the ice underneath my feet. Like a scene in a suspense movie Maven and I used to watch, the crack grew longer and wider until the ground was cut in half; however unlike the movie, I wasn’t able to run.  I plunged into the freezing water.  The water was exactly like what Jack said in the movie Titanic.  It felt like “thousand knives stabbing you all over your body”.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t think, at least not about the pain.

 

My sister rushed towards me and tried to pull me up.  She helped me reach stable ground.  Then there was another cracking sound.  This time, it was Maven who fell into the icy water.  I tried to reach her hand, but she floated farther and farther away from me.  Neither of us knew how to swim.  I shouted for help, but no one could hear me.  I ran to the nearest well-lit place with people for help but when I got back, I saw the most horrifying scene in my entire life. Maven was floating in the icy water.  Her lifeless body turned white as snow. 

 

I ran as fast and as far as I could.  I didn’t want to go home. I was sure my parents would hate me because I killed their oldest daughter.  After what seemed like hours of running, I looked around and realized that everything around me was different.  There were less lights, less houses, more trees and empty spaces.  I was probably in a different town.  The only structure I could recognize was a small church on top of a hill.  I knocked and peeked in, but saw that there was nobody inside so I entered sat on a pew. 

 

I must have dozed off until I felt a tap on my shoulder. 

 

“Hi. I’m sorry child, it is getting late and we are about to close.  Where are your parents?” A middle aged man gently asked me.

 

“Umm…I don’t have any…” I said hesitantly. 

 

“I’m Pastor John, by the way.  What is your name?”  He held out his hand for me to shake.

 

“I’m Trish,” I said, trying to be brave.

 

“Hi, Trish, where are you staying?” He asked with a concerned look on his face.

 

“I uh… I don’t have anywhere to go.”  I answered with tears swelling in my eyes.  After answering a few more questions, he invited me to stay in the church house with his family and foster kids.  I was surprised that they welcomed me as if I were a long lost family member without any question.  They didn’t have to know what I did. I didn’t tell them.

 

The other kids always invited me out to play but I would rather stay in my room.  I was content watching them play from my window. I felt I had no right to have fun especially when someone I loved dearly couldn’t anymore because of me. Instead, with a bit of imagination, I found solace in my books and indoor picnics. Besides, the window was big enough for me to wave ‘hi’ to the kids and connect to the outside world.

 

For the past 19 years, my window to the world remains open three-quarters of a year. But when winter comes, just as it has today, I’d rather have the view of my pink and yellow floral curtain. And so, I take one last look of the colorful landscape outside my window and bid the outside world goodbye. I close the window and pull down the curtains.

 

I take the can of cookies from the cupboard and prepare a cup of warm milk with a dollop of honey. I open the can of Mrs. Wakefield.  The smell is exactly the same from my childhood.  I take the top cookie, and break it in half.  How I wish I could share it with Maven.  I can’t help but think of this every single time even now when I’m 30 years old.

 

As I try to enjoy my half, I check out the can. It still looks the same. It has the logo of “Mrs. Wakefield” with the cartoon drawing of a plump lady holding a rolling pin.   At the back, it has the nutritional facts (okay, noted on the 325 calories per piece) and serving suggestions.  The back part of the packaging has been updated. There is now a drawing of a cookie cut in half.  It says “The best way to enjoy the cookie is to eat it in the ‘cookie bond’ way, sharing it with another person, and enjoying it with a cup of warm milk mixed with honey.  I can’t believe someone else has the exact same weird idea as my sister — the cookie bond? Honey in milk?

 

Curiously, I read the fine print at the bottom with font size 6.0.  It says:

 

In the winter of 1996, sisters Maven & Trish received their first can of Mrs. Wakefield. Over a glass of warm milk with honey, they enjoyed each piece of chocolate-ty goodness.  In order to savor the cookie and enjoy a longer bonding experience, they divided each cookie between the two of them, thus the ‘cookie bond’ tradition was born. Though the sisters have been separated by unforeseen circumstance, Maven still eats her cookies in halves in the hopes that one day her sister Trish would return home and they could continue this tradition together again.

 

I feel a weight over my chest. My vision blurs. The tiniest puddle forms on the cookie can. Now I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. I wipe them away but they keep flowing. I let myself cry until my tears run dry. I put the lid over the can of cookies. I want to call out to someone but no sound came when I opened my mouth. Even if I shout at the top of my lungs, it would have been drowned out by the merriment of the thanksgiving dinner downstairs. With the can in hand, I walk away from my picnic area and turn the knob of my bedroom door.

My COVID-19 Lockdown Journey

Hello there!  It has been ages since I last blogged.  David told me I need to take time to reflect, because since the beginning of lockdown I’ve just been shifting from one activity to another.  

In the first few days, I spent most of my time playing the piano.  Song for Brother by Captain Ri.  Then this sad song by Paul Kim.  Maybe it was my way of taking my mind off the Covid thing.

Some questions that had kept me up at night in the early days were ‘Will the Mori moms have enough food to eat?’ ‘What work am I going to give them?’ You see, our products were  considered non-essential goods.  'How can we still contribute and make a difference in society?' 'Will we have enough medicines, food for the whole country... how about tissue rolls?'

I had the desire to do something, to help, but I didn't know how.  Good thing I stumbled upon the donation drive of my HS batchmates that was looking not just for donation in cash or kind, but also for volunteers to do face shields.  (Thank you Jirbie for spearheading!)  My friend Lynette and I had been looking for such an opportunity.  So we started to make face shields for them to be donated to hospitals.  We didn’t intend to sell, but my uncle (who owns a distribution company) told me that there are other types of frontliners that need face shields too.  It took three phone calls with him before we finally agreed to start a side project of making face shields and selling them at a cost lower than market rate.   It turns out that bankers, drivers, sales people, people in manufacturing and distribution also need them.  And because of this, the Mori moms got more work to do.  Thankfully, the face shields got them covered in March and April.

FAQ: How did you get the materials?  During the lockdown, almost all businesses and shops (except for food, medicine, logistics) were closed.  Thankfully, I had (and still have) a very resourceful partner.  She was able to find the right suppliers like needles in a haystack when all other suppliers were out of stock.  She also got us more effective and efficient materials.  Having a partner in this project made it a breeze. (I'm reminded of the hashtag #SanaAll... Sana all of my projects have a Lynette. 😂)

Another item that I wished Mori could do since day 1 of lockdown was Face Masks.  I searched for the patterns and templates recommended by nurses and physicians.  But because I lacked the expertise and there seemed to be an overwhelming pool of materials to choose from, I ended up shoving the Face Mask idea aside.  Plus, many people have told me there’s a lot of competition, so why bother.

Then one mornight at 1am, while I was browsing through the IG stories of my friends, I came across the IG story of Martha Stewart that says the best materials for washable face masks are DENIM and CANVAS.  It was as if God were telling me, “Mitzi, what are you waiting for?”  Denim and canvas are the two main materials being used in Mori Notes. 

This was April 21.  

By April 25, we had two working samples, 1 denim and 1 printed fabric.  I took photos of the masks and available fabrics.  I published an album called ‘Mori Face Masks’ on FB and said we are now accepting pre-orders.  I had no idea how many people would buy.  Within 2.5 working days, we were able to gather orders of at least a thousand pieces of face masks forcing me to close the pre-order round 1 because I didn’t expect that much orders.  

(The photos above were our first two prototyopes.)

You see, I’ve no assistant during the lockdown.  My staff is working from home as well.  And so, I’d be the only one talking to the 62 clients, sifting through the 55 SKUs (we have various cloth designs and sizes), and packing their orders. Plus I’d also need to compute the job orders, prepare the materials, purchase if needed, have them delivered to the community, pick-up from community, and quality check before packing. The anxiety with this string of to-do list caused me sleepless nights. “Will I be able to pack at least a thousand pieces of masks by myself before May 15?”  This was just for Pre-order Round 1.

(Some of the masks from Pre-order Round 2.)

Then there was Pre-order Round 2.  I decided to start the second round while round 1 was ongoing, because we have a second community in Batasan Hills that needs work.  And so while I was doing QC, coordination and packaging for Round 1, I was also doing sales and marketing for Round 2.  Then now there is round 3, and those singit orders between rounds 2 and 3.  Still these are God’s blessings.

And so David’s right.  I haven’t had the time to look far out my window, enjoy the sound of my chimes, and just reflect.  Most of my journal entries have been things I’ve accomplished for the day and the next day’s to-do lists.  But one thing I know, God has been with me throughout the Face Shield and Face Mask journey and He has blessed the works of my hands. 

Outside work, I'd be playing the piano, monitoring the vegetables we planted, watching Koreanobela on Netflix, exercising with my exercise buddies (our househelp, Lynette, Barbs, my nephew Michael, or my 5-year old goddaughter Kaikoura).   Oh, and I also did the haircut of our 2 househelp and David.  Sadly, they won't let me cut their hair ever again even if it's free! My mom said I should be the one giving the customers tip if they let me cut their hair.🤣)  So anyhoo, my time's usually dedicated to work and play.   Not much rest.

(This is a malunggay plant.  We asked for a twig from our neighbor 2 when ECQ started; it had no leaves back then.)

(With one of my exercise buddies, Kaikoura. This photo was taken after one of our workout.)

Today as I try to reflect on how I really am.. over this Coronavirus thing, I go back to the thoughts that had run through my head before I was finally able to fall asleep, and thoughts that I had shut out and replaced with activities.

More than fear, I think the feeling I had was grief. When I tried to understand the impact of a bat virus on one person, on one city, on one country, on the rest of the world in a span of less than 6 months, it was equally bizarre and depressing.  Last February, when it hit the Philippines, I slowly saw its impact.  First, people who had travel plans suddenly became busy doing cancellations.  Some people lost their livelihood.  Friends, many from middle income class, had no income in two months (and counting).  Businesses started closing.  Parents of friends have also passed away.  Leisure, livelihood, and lives were lost because of the virus.

Though this may not be world war, we have lost another important aspect of humanity that breathes life, and that is freedom.  The freedom to step out of the house doing simple things like buying groceries.  The freedom to travel abroad for inspiration or even back home to be with the family. The freedom to go to school. The freedom to meet friends over the weekend.  The freedom to worship together in church.  Normalcy has died.  Goodbye fun ol’ times.  We have no choice but to say hello to the new normal.  

I couldn’t help but be reminded of the construction of the Tower of Babel.  Back then, people were flourishing and God changed the whole world suddenly by dividing them through their languages.  Pre-Covid, people were flourishing too.  People made travel plans so easily for the rest of the year.  People went on with their businesses.  Then in an instant, one person’s virus got transmitted to 4.99 million (and counting) all over the world. Now, we are divided and locked down per household.  Suddenly, we are made more aware that our lives each day are literally in the hands of God.

I don’t want to live the rest of my months stuck at home in fear of the virus.  But I also don’t want to be out and about carelessly.  So I pray to God for wisdom.  What shall be my “Faith Stand”?  What attitude (toward the virus) will be God-glorifying? 

What I realize I need to acknowledge is that the plague is upon us.  There is no escape, no matter how much we hide.  Some people who stayed at home during the whole lockdown period still contracted the disease.  At the end of the day, we are all at risk.  Some of us will suffer from it, and some of us won’t.  
I have been reminded through my devotion that God knows what will happen to each one of us even before we were formed in the womb.  He has also numbered our days.  This means, with or without Covid, the date of our passing has already been set. 

Some of our numbers may expire in 2020 and the reason for death is Covid.  Truly, it can be tragic, especially for those unaware of eternity.  But for those whom Jesus has prepared a place for, I cannot help but feel that they (who have passed on) have greater fate than those who are still here.  The earth has become less livable than ever.  There in the heavenly kingdom, we can frolic freely and view picturesque sights up to our hearts delight; here, we are best confined inside the four walls of our house.  How safe, beautiful, and perfect is our home up there.  We can finally experience fullness of joy being in our real home in the presence of our Heavenly Father.

For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. -Philippians 1:21