Bittersweet Cookies of Memories

Bells, chimes, carollers, ring in my ears as I walk down the street. The smell of pine and that oh-so-familiar cold winter breeze overflow all my senses, overtaking me, filling every inch of my body, all of which screaming the same thing -- Christmas.

Perhaps one ought to be jolly in this season, with all the presents and hot cocoa and tree corpses flooding in the streets -- and oh, one shall not forget -- cookies. But Christmas was just never it for me -- recurring every year only to open up and sprinkle salt in the wounded memory of that one Christmas night. Jangling my keys from my bag to open the front door, I forced myself to pull myself together and shook my head to push away all the negative, traumatizing things--

"Mommy!" my 6-year-old shouted as she ran towards me as soon as I step foot in the house. The warmth of my house, combined with the sweet, pleasant scent of baked goods immediately engulfed me, greeting my face like a painful slap in the face.

"Are you baking?" I asked.

"Yeah," my husband answered from the kitchen. "Lucy's having a bake sale for school tomorrow. Besides, I thought it'd be a good memory."

I grimaced at the thought, the scent further triggering my fight-or-flight response, every inch of my body willing myself to shut down the idea once and for all. But something about the scent drew me to the kitchen, somehow inviting me to draw close and stitch the wound up and make peace with Christmas. I smiled. Perhaps it was long overdue.

I kneeled in front of my daughter. "All right then, wanna make cookies? I have Grandma's secret recipe, and it's by far the best I've tasted."

My daughter cheered excitedly, jumping up and down. "Let's go!"

Walking to my closet to retrieve the recipe, my daughter followed close behind, willing me to be brave and to face the wounds of my past, the only reason my feet kept taking another step towards the box.

I picked up the box, opening the lid ever so cautiously, ready for the contents inside it to open up the wound once again, bringing tears to my eyes -- only the recipe wasn't there. The yellow, torn-at-its-edges paper that I grew up seeing constantly laying around in the family-owned bakery wasn't there.

I turned to my daughter, unwilling to burst her little bubble of excitement, but knowing deep down I had to. "I'm sorry sweetie, but Grandma's recipe seems to be gone."

"Well, that's no problem, Mommy," she replied, maintaining her cheery atmosphere, and yet keeping a timid voice. "I'm sure you can remember it."

I wanted to say no, to shut the idea down -- there was no way I was reliving that dreadful night just to retrieve the recipe.. "I'm sorry honey, but it was 30 years ago! I couldn't possibly--"

"Well, let's start with the basic ingredients, Mom," her optimistic voice responded. "First of course, there's flour, and eggs, and sugar, right? Hmm, what else? Butter?"

"Yes, I suppose that's about right. There's probably a little bit of vanilla extract there, too. But I can't seem to remember Grandma's secret ingredient. If only I could--"

Bang! I gasped as my husband entered the room, slamming the door running from an insect. Immediately the memories came flooding back to me. Gunshots. Christmas night 30 years ago.

The scene from 30 years ago unwinded right before my very eyes, replaying instantly, a memory that had seemed to be lost forever suddenly back and found and unwinding to replay, to replenish my faded memory.

All of a sudden I was in the family bakery owned by my parents, baking cookies with my mom at the back of the shop, while my dad manned the store for any customers. Looking down at my tiny fingers covered with flour, I laughed. Oh, to be a kid baking cookies with my Mom again.

Suddenly I heard the usual bell chime that usually meant someone was entering the bakery. I smiled; the last customer before we closed shop for Christmas.

But then suddenly: shouting. "Open up!" "Hands where I can see them!" "Give me the money!"

And then shuffling. A few seconds passed. And then: Bang!

I looked up to my mom, whose brows immediately furrowed, evidently concerned, but still trying her best not to show it to her daughter beside her. "What was that, Mom?"

"Nothing honey," she replied, the tremor evident in her voice, but still as calm and soothing as ever, now chopping something much, much louder on the chopping board, obviously an attempt to overpower the sounds of the bangs outside, before stopping abruptly when the bangs stopped. Now what was she chopping? It was white, I remember. White and somewhat jelly-like--

"Coconut!" I yelled.

"Mom?" my daughter's voice filled my ears, shattering my train of thought. "Are you okay?"

"It's coconut! One of the secret ingredients is coconut!"

"Oh that's great! What's the other one? Can you try to remember?"

I glanced nervously at her, about to say no, but her gaze continuing to encourage me otherwise. The scene continued to unfold.

Now I'm back in the bakery kitchen, in my mom's arms. "You stay here, okay? Don't go out until I say it's okay to go out. It's probably nothing, but I'm just going to go out and take a look and grab the last ingredient, okay? You stay here." My mom broke from our embrace, slowly going outside of the kitchen.

I nodded slowly. "Be careful, Mom," came my timid voice, encouraging and braving my mom to take the next step, just as my daughter's did only a short while ago.

I wanted to stop her. Something about that moment didn't feel right. The commotion outside didn't seem right. Something bad was about to happen. I could feel it. I started to run after her, about to go out of the kitchen door and into the bakery when--

Bang! Bang!

I froze, shock and fear overtaking my body, the atmosphere absolutely surreal, time seemingly standing still.

I waited.

Five minutes. I heard the familiar bell chime usually heard when the bakery door was opened. Things must be alright, I reassured myself. But still I didn't dare go out.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

Twenty. Thirty.

My mom never came back.

Tears streamed down my face, and all at once I was back in my bedroom, my husband now shaking me to get me out of my trance. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah."

"Why are you crying?"

"That night," I said. "That night."

"Hey, stop remembering that. It's okay."

"No, let me. I have to make peace with my past."

My husband frowned at me, clearly worried, but knowing he had to let me. He nodded reluctantly, my body still in his embrace.

Back at the bakery. Waiting Begging, praying for my mom to walk through that door and hug me, tell me everything's fine and to apologize for taking so long. But that moment never came. Mom never came to me. So I had to come to her.

I braced myself for the worse, pushing open the kitchen door. Immediately I wished I hadn't.

My eyes flew around the room, seemingly never able to focus on one thing, every single bit of that scene too grotesque, too intense, too traumatizing for one small 6 year old to take in.

My Mom on the floor. My dad on the floor. Pools of blood surrounding them. A wound to their chests. The cash register open and empty. The bakery deserted.

I gasped, my eyes big as saucers, the jolly Christmas decorations pointless around me. Anger towards them built up. My mind raced with excuses and reasoning as to why this happened to them. My parents were good people. Our family has never done anything really wrong. But no matter how hard I wrecked my brain trying to come up with reasons just to stay sane -- nothing came. The only thing I could blame it all upon: Christmas. Maybe if it wasn't Christmas there'd be more cops and this wouldn't have happened. Maybe if it wasn't Christmas there would be more people on the road passing by and this wouldn't have happened.

The urge to look away stronger than ever. But there was something that caught my eye. My eyes drifted there. My mom. Her hand. Covered in blood. Holding a box. What box? What could be so important? Finally I got it. The last secret ingredient.

"Oatmeal!"

My daughter hugged me as her tiny hand wiped my tear-stained face. My husband wrapped me tighter in his embrace. "It's all over now. Everything's fine."

I nodded and shook my head. Everything was fine now. I've made peace with my past. It was never Christmas's fault. It was simply coincidence. Change. Things beyond my control. And that was fine. I just had to move on.

"Now let's bake some cookies now, shall we?" I took her by the hand and ran downstairs. She laughed.

And that was Christmas Eve. The coconut-filled cookies sat on the counter, the oatmeal adding the perfect chewiness to it.

Overall, probably wasn't the sweetest Christmas ever. But the slight bitterness made it perfect. Just like a cookie. Bittersweet.