Not the Milk and Cookies Kind

I went to hospital room 347 and picked up a bag marked Personal Belongings.

One pair sensible soled shoes. Check.

One pair all cotton white ankle socks. Check.

One folded pair of stretchy waistband polyester pants with coordinating stretchy flowered shirt, always flowered, never striped or polka-dotted. Check.

One pair of thick-lensed bifocals. One set of false teeth. Check. Check.

I signed the list and brought the bag home because Granny, who just entered hospice care, will not be needing the things any longer. I set down the bag on a counter covered in three days of dirty dishes and baked chocolate chip cookies which was strange because Granny was never the milk and cookies type of grandmother.

No, she was the type of grandmother who secretly snuck across the state line to marry Emil Junior at age 17, who when widowed young, entered the man's world to provide for her daughter young in a time when women sewed matching outfits, made jello salad and brownies from scratch without the help of a box.

The type of grandmother who when asked her nationality would say American, who never drove a car, yet traveled to Michigan's Cherry Festival, Minnesota's Great Lakes, Montana's Glacier Park, Missouri's Meramac Caverns and all other states, except Hawaii.

The type of grandmother who sat in the splash section of the Shamu Show, who liked helping the old people at her nursing home, who went to the hospital for the first time when she broke her hip at age 98 and for the second time last week.

The type of grandmother who has lived 101 years.

Which is why on this day, the day Granny entered hospice care, I went home and baked chocolate chip cookies savoring the sweet, melting richness.