Bea climbs into the car, holding a round tin container in her arms. Cookies, she says. What am I to do with three dozen cookies. She’s laughing and crying all at the same moment and then Mother is knocking on the window. Bea rolls it down. The recipe, Mother says, handing her a tattered note card littered with butter stains. But you won’t have it then, Bea says, wiping the tears from her face. Oh, child, Mother says. It’s all in my head. Everything is in there. I don’t need the words anymore. Mother kisses her fingers and blows toward Bea. Safe travels, my dear. Please come back soon.
