I cut through the hedge to my neighbor’s back yard. The glass on the kitchen door was broken, the door closed. I heard Dudley’s Volkswagen drive by on the street. There were no other sounds.

I peeked through the broken glass to see Sally’s shelf of cookbooks scattered on the kitchen floor. An overturned chair lay near the door. Sally? I called. At the sound of my voice, Sally’s dog Bunko raised his head. I’d missed seeing him under the table. He whimpered and gave a cursory thump of his tail. Please, no, I muttered . . .


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

3 thoughts on “Cookbook”

  1. This should be easy. Just relax, take a deep breath. Remember how it goes. It’s cookbook. Don’t think about this as a person. Don’t look at the monitor readings, or the scared faces of the nurse. Don’t imagine the sobbing, panicked wife outside. You wait for the anesthesiologist, you make the incision, you find the bleeder…

  2. I was so angry as I looked her legacy.
    A cookbook? This was her great letter of goodbye?
    It took time to understand what she was giving me – she was giving me her support one ingredient at a time. Every time I tried out a recipe I would taste home, taste my childhood, taste the memories of her before the illness withered her away.

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