It’s Not About the Cookies

Erza Applebaum🌹
Sep 5, 2018 · 2 min read
“close up photo of three cookies” by Daria Nepriakhina on Unsplash

I can hear his footsteps as he approaches my office. They are hasty for his age. His legs swiftly carry him through the dim hallway and he moves like a young ballerina through the air. The carpeted floor absorbs most of the sounds and he appears silent and scary. I sit in my spot and hold my breath.

“This will be over soon”, I think.

I dread the moment when he’d come in.

When he enters my office, there is no one to greet him. I freeze in my spot, stop scrolling through my feed and listen to what he would do next. He stops at the doorway and looks around. A smirk followed.

“Aha!” I cheer internally. I know that he thinks the room is empty, and the fear I felt moments before turns into excitement.

His footsteps approach my desk and he riffles through the newspapers that sit atop. As the old pages rustle above my head, I get my phone out and quickly type a message. Once the rustling stops, I freeze in my spot once again.

He picks up a Christmas card from my desk and his old hands let is drop to the floor. I realize he is going to reach down for it, and my stomach churns. I fear that my eyes will meet his eyes. I fear that I will be discovered. I fear that my message will not reach my saviour in time. My heart pounds so loud I fear that he would hear it too.

His hand appears before my eyes and snatches the card.

“Done” my phone informs me. I look up and see his massive shadow disseminating into the hallway.

“Wow, this was over soon,” I sigh out, climbing from underneath the table. He was gone.

A 90-year-old WW2 veteran, who brought me oatmeal raisin cookies and told stories about the war.

Erza Applebaum🌹

Written by

Journalist in progress, slowly riding this beautiful life and capturing enigmatic moments in writing (erzaedition.com)

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