baked cookies

I buy Fig Newtons

occasionally. They 

are a communion

with that time when Mrs. Heinz 

would give them to me when

Dad and Mom, Reverend

and Mrs. Hoot, would call

on her to see how she 

was, to listen, to pray, 

to leave.  And sometimes

half the Fig Newtons would

be eaten by her kids and me.

I’m not certain when I take

a bite I don’t hear, “The body

and blood of life.”  We’d walk

across a wooden bridge over

a small stream to get to the car.

The silence inside 

as we drove away.