This week, I moved my dad to an assisted living facility. He’d lived with us for 10 years, but his Alzheimer’s had gotten to the stage where he increasingly needed professional care. As anyone who has cared for an aging parent knows, the logistics of moving were the least of it.
In the daytime, I filled out forms, labeled clothes, and moved furniture. In the evening, I made cookies. If you wanted to argue this was in some way a return to the comforts of childhood, I wouldn’t contradict you.
I scooped out the dough with an ice cream scoop, a trick I’d never used before. The dough came out in perfect spheres, which I flattened into perfect circles, which baked into perfect round cookies. Then I ate them, in the dark, in the quiet, their sweetness and perfection a reminder of everything imperfect and passing.