She baked cookies every Saturday morning. The doorbell would ring, without fail, and always interrupt my favorite cartoon show. I dragged my young body down the stairs and opened the front door. The elderly woman, our neighbor, beamed at me. She held a large tray of freshly baked treats in her fragile arms. Always filling my head with rustic banter, I listened to her speak, nodding with false interest. Typically we chatted for half an hour, then, with an enormous smile, she turned away and shuffled back home. Welcoming her departure, I stuffed my mouth with a pecan sandy and raced back upstairs.
Her husband passed away in his sleep one Friday night. She called my mother the next afternoon to let her know of the man's death and also to apologize for missing our Saturday morning ritual. Sunday evening, I heard a gentle tapping on the door. I peeked out the window and saw her standing there, trey in hand. Speechless and untrained in the art of condolence, I opened the door and quietly stood there. She smiled like it was any other day and handed me her gift. I thanked her and not another word was said. She continued delivering cookies to my doorstep every Saturday until my eleventh year of life when my family moved away. Today, I can't recall her name.