Cookie Rock

When I found the cookie rock
among tumbled, decorative stones
in our side yard, around the downspout,
I had secrets with it, its cool smell of earth,
its fit in my palm. I bit it at least once.
I still have it somewhere — it’s not lost,
just packed away, and someday I may find it
when I’m looking for something else,
and then I’ll swear never to lose it again.
I know I showed it to Helena Bolen,
and she gamely pretended to be fooled
when I told her it really was a cookie.
Helena Bolen, my adopted grandparent
on Grandparents’ Day at school. Her house,
the plastic runner to protect the carpet,
her cat named Tweety, one time jumping
on my back with claws out, kneading.
I think I had privileges there, to knock
and always find her, Helena Bolen,
happy to see me. Even her name
is solid, a kindness that is
not lost to me, only
packed away.


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