Homemade

All of the other kids took their cookies and ran outside. But not Joseph. He stood there holding his.

Joseph was born to a drug addict mother. I assumed that was the cause of his physical and cognitive challenges. We never met the mother. I heard that she had eventually OD'd and died. Joseph's dad counted his sobriety in months.

I often think about him and wonder whatever happened to him.

Ours was one of those Kool-Aid houses that always had a collection of kids after school, and I usually offered some type of snack like grapes or watermelon. In fact, we kept a stack of red plastic cups, and the kids all knew to look in the cupboard for the cups with their names on them.

It was no big deal for me to whip up a batch of Toll House cookies. No recipe needed. I could have the dough ready in ten minutes if I didn't need to stop to tie a shoe or mediate a disagreement.

Even though Joseph lived the closest, he didn't come over very often. He was older than the other kids, but he couldn't really keep up. I think he was often home alone after school, and he wouldn't come to my house without permission.

The other kids had gone about their play, and Joseph lingered. Then he looked up at me and said, "I've never had a homemade cookie before."

I don't know the rest of the story. We moved away soon after that.  I hope that somehow it had a happy ending.