The box sits on the counter, with half of a cookie inside. The bottom of the clear plastic container is riddled with colorful round sprinkles, the ones that managed to fall off the cookie but escape the floor. 

It’s Tuesday – the container has been in our kitchen since Thursday. Before that, it sat on my grandfather’s counter. On Sunday before he died, we were all enjoying lunch at my parents’ house. The minute everyone was done eating lunch, he went into his room and came out clutching the box. One by one he offered us a cookie. And one by one, we accepted. 

“Yo me como la mitad de una.”

“I’ll share with you, Mom.” 

He offered. 

We took. 

His smile was about as big as it could get. He LOVED to give. 

I’m glad I didn’t say no to the cookie. When I spotted them at my parents’ house on Thursday, we passed them around, and we all took one. And then my mom gave them to me and said “These are for Caleb and Chloe.” The next morning, Eddie gave Caleb and Chloe each a cookie for breakfast. There was a cookie left. One of us ate half. I’m not even sure who anymore. 

And now, the half cookie sits in the box. The plastic box on the counter, an unspoken understanding between Eddie and I. We usually throw things away rather quickly. But we won’t throw this away, not yet. I don’t know how this plastic box became a symbol for my grandfather, but it has. 

Maybe it’s just a reminder to take. To take what is offered, freely. Without “buts”. Without asking for more. 

Or maybe it’s a reminder to give. To give freely of what we have. With no strings attached. Because that’s who he was. He never expected anything in return. 

Because in the end, what we give is what’s left behind. And for my grandfather, what he left behind is so much more than a box of cookies. He left behind a legacy. A legacy of selflessness, of giving of himself freely.

Rest easy, my Abito.

xoxo