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.
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