Stories are for asking questions.

The plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies in front of me looked incomplete. I wondered why so hard, I stroked my beard until it fell off. Or maybe I had remembered to shave this morning?

I took a cookie. I stared at it. A woman came over and placed a glass of milk in front of me. Aha! I dipped my chocolate chip cookie into the glass of milk and took a huge bite. It was just a bit too soggy and it left a few crumbs in my glass. Still delicious. “I fink dey need more butter,” I mumbled.

“You’re welcome, son,” she said and smiled at me. Suspicious. I ate my cookie slowly. I know Freud said that, sometimes, a cookie is just a cookie, but I was still waiting to see how this one would evolve. I finished the first cookie and took a second with my other hand in one swift motion. Smooth. I was safe for the moment. I chewed the cookie slowly, testing the pieces with my tongue to make sure there wasn’t a hook in it. But if there were and it was chocolate I still would have eaten it.

“Your grandfather’s out for a walk in the garden,” she said. “Maybe you’d like to join him?” Damn. To be fair, the trap was sprung the moment the cookie dough was made. She knew me too well, except for the unfounded thought that I’d like to join him. I held up the remaining portion of the cookie in front of my face and gave her my best innocent grin. I probably looked more like the Joker. She sighed and left the room. I finished my second cookie, then took a vengeance cookie with me for the road.

My feet brought me through a screen door, down a stone path, and into a small, enclosed garden. An old man with a lot of white hair was pacing around the birdbath among the roses and geraniums. I could tell he was old because he walked with his hands clasped behind his back. He smiled at me, and then I ate my vengeance cookie in one bite. He raised his eyebrows and nodded, doing another circuit around the birdbath. I waited where I was for something to happen.

“What kinds of stories do you like?” he asked, his head tracking me while his feet continued the birdbath circuit.

“Ones with endings.” I figured that was safe enough.

He nodded. “Like a life?”

I swallowed again even though I was done my cookie. I shrugged and shifted my weight to my other foot. “Sure.”

“Stories are for asking questions,” he continued pacing. “Some questions are scary. Some questions are beautiful. Some questions are hard to ask and harder to answer. It says a lot about someone, the kind of questions they like to ask and to hear. What kind of questions do you like?” He looked at me expectantly and stopped pacing.

My mind went blank. He could have asked me what my name was and my response would have been the same. I was trapped on a hamster’s wheel, chasing words like they were a carrot on a stick. I stared at him. His gaze fell and the lines on his face grew deeper. “One day you’ll appreciate your story as I appreciate mine.” He started walking again. I wanted to tell him I didn’t think I would, but my head wasn’t finished being empty.

“Death is the final story, and today is as good a time as any to start it.” I didn’t hear his words until after he left, but I hadn’t noticed him leave.

I came back to that house and garden many times in my life but I never saw the old man again.