Crack the Spine - Issue 176

As I held the box, though, I hesitated. The cookies brought up an old pain.

These chocolate chip heavens always reminded me of Gramps, because he had kept them in a yellow jar in our kitchen, and at night, Gramps always let me have one more than he said at the start of the day.

I lovingly placed them in my cart and started checking out.

“Sdkzuoeurkdleuesleur,” or something like that, the very blonde and pretty cashier girl said.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand you. I’m American,” I said.

“I said that those are very good. My parents always got those cookies for me when I was little.”

I almost told her that Gramps had also fed me cookies like these, but something stopped me.

I knew that I would cry if I told her.

Why? Because I loved and was lonely for Gramps, because I was in a foreign country and this lovely girl had actually tried connecting with me, and because I was still reeling from assisting in my Gramps’ suicide – even if it was a necessary step on my journey.

Somehow, this girl’s blue eyes and our simple exchange produced all that pain and beauty in me.

What if I had hit this girl and destroyed her power to make me smile, and then reflect, and then cry? All of those are what makes us human, and yes, I would be destroying a human life. Manslaughter wasn’t just about destroying a person, it was about destroying their smile, their compassion, their ability to help strangers feel less strange in a foreign land.

A messy ambivalence walked into my brain. Had Gramps really told me the truth about manslaughter’s joys, or had this girl’s clear blue eyes?