Oreo

The night before my father’s heart attack, my brother and I were splayed across a bed watching a re-run of “Happy Days” and eating Oreo cookies. My father sat stiff and upright in a wooden chair. By then, his back felt like it was being pierced by daggers and the pain made his face pale and clammy. I offered him an Oreo, one of his favorite snacks, as I gently twisted apart the dark discs to reveal the snowy treasure in between. He watched as I scraped the cream from the dry, crisp chocolate with my teeth, then he turned his head and said, “No, thank you.” I never wondered if he knew in those final hours that his emerald eyes were about to close forever, or if he felt death spread inside of him like a cool drink. Because if he did, he would have taken the Oreo, if only for one small bite, just to feel the gritty chocolate, that ordinary joy, crumble over his tongue one last time.