When I was a child, I played with Lincoln Logs and looked through Little Golden Books in the front breezeway.
When I was a young girl, I discovered all kinds of treasures in Grandma’s attic, like an old metal dollhouse and a cool antique trunk.
When I was a teenager, I sat on a stool in the kitchen with perm rods wrapped tightly in my hair as Grandma drenched me with cold, stinky solution.
When I was a young woman, I brought my husband into our tradition of roasting hot dogs in Grandma’s fireplace every Christmas Eve.
When I was a new mom, I sat beside Grandma and beamed with pride as she held each one of my newborn babies.
All of her grandkids were familiar with that jar. It was almost always full of cookies. I remember one summer when my brother and I rode our bikes all the way to Grandma’s house. I can almost guarantee what Grandma gave us when we showed up on her steps: chocolate chip cookies and a cold bottle of pop.
Without thinking, I picked up the dusty lid and peeked inside. Of course I found nothing. Not even a crumb. Grandma hadn’t baked in years. It’s funny, though. I knew the jar would be empty, but I looked anyway.
And that’s when it hit me. I’d never visited Grandma’s house without my grandparents in it.
Grandma should’ve shuffled around the corner to greet me when I walked through the door. Grandpa should be napping on the couch with the cat curled up beside him. I knew my grandparents were gone, but I looked for them anyway.
That day, Grandma’s cookie jar didn’t provide me with cookies, but it did give me a special reminder.
No matter what age or stage I was going through, my Grandma made life just a little bit sweeter.