Dear Grandma: some thoughts on Danish butter cookies, and the simplicity of magic

A picture of Grandma and Grandpa that I keep on my altar.

I wrote this drafty excerpt of a letter to Grandma tonight—marking two years since we lost her. I wish I could have her back but, in the meantime, I share some reflections on how I spent the day, and the simple magic that she made in all of our lives.

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Dear Grandma,

On the morning that we lost you, before I knew that we had lost you, I found myself out in the suburbs of Providence, running some errands. I was bopping around a little shopping center, and ran into a Bed, Bath & Beyond for something I cannot remember at this point. What I do remember is that there was a display—a tower really—of butter cookies. You know, the shiny blue tin of Danish treats that you would keep in the back of Grandpa’s car? An after school delight for many a grandchild. On the morning that we lost you, it had been something like two or so years since you had really begun to leave us. Two or so years since the dementia had really taken hold. Your eyes a bit glassier. Your voice carried softly through the room in Tagalog. On the morning that we lost you, we had already been grieving for some time. So I can’t tell you how serendipitous it felt to have stumbled upon this tower of cookies. Grandma’s cookies. I bought a tin, of course.

I also cannot tell you how painful it felt to get a call, just a few hours later, that you were gone. And, still, how it felt like magic to know that, perhaps, you were with me that morning—passing through, helping me find that tower of cookies, helping me find you. Just for a moment. And exactly on time.

Today, it has been two years since we lost you. And, finding myself in the throes of grief and a myriad of other challenges to my mental health and stability, I was not sure how I wanted to mark the day. I did some writing, to you, this morning. Lit a candle. Said hello. I looked at pictures of you and printed some out in the hopes of maybe doing some collaging tonight.

And then at some point this afternoon, I remembered the cookies. And I felt deeply sad that I had not procured some ahead of time to mark this day, and to honor you. Only for Decatur to tell me, as we drove through a different suburban shopping mall outside of Providence, that we could probably just pick some up in the area. And, subconsciously, I thought, no way. Only to Google it and to realize that, indeed, Walgreens carries them.

So tonight, we ran by Walgreens, and I picked up a card to write you a little note. To honor and remember your cards for every occasion. And I found them—a stack of blue tins—on the last food aisle, as if they were waiting for me. And as I went to crack open the tin, I was struck by the fact that it would have never occurred to me that you just stopped by your local pharmacy or grocery store to pick up these cookies. It was unfathomable that it was that simple, that easy, this magic you made in our lives each and every day. I’m not sure what the little kid (and now adult) in me imagined: maybe that you had a special shipment of these come in from Denmark every few months. Or, at least, from Costco. Frankly, either of these scenarios seemed entirely plausible to me. And still do.

Walgreens, local distributor of the ever-elusive (in my head) Danish butter cookie. Also, this is my Grandma's jacket—because she was a fashion icon.

But actually, maybe it was simple. Maybe it was easy. Maybe you really did just pop into your local Walgreens every few weeks to stock up on your Danish butter cookies—ensuring that your grandchildren would experience something sweet, something magical, every time we were in your presence. And, indeed, we did. Because what I miss about you most, and what I try to infuse my own life with, is exactly this perpetual state of magic, of serendipity. It was a gift.

My world really is just a little less vibrant without you and Grandpa in it, Grandma. I will miss you and love you always.