-^-for posterity-^-

i drove my motorcycle to the post office today through chaotic traffic. i was carrying my passport and my customs pass with me in my back pocket. i kept checking to make sure they were there.

the post office is a magestic building with neon lettering at the top. in bright, gigantic letters, it says ‘buu dien’. i walked up the steps and turned left towards the customs desk. the room was small and there was a man sleeping on a small cot in the corner. an older lady wearing a very ornate ao dai dress greeted me and took my passport and customs pass. she walked into a room that had about 20 packages in and looked around for mine.

the suspense involved in getting a package is incredible. who on earth would have sent me something? what on earth could it be? the suspense greatly outweighs actually opening the package and finding out what is inside. it could have been anything from summer sausage to a book.

she found the package and trudged out. she took my passport and looked all over it and finally asked me where it said where it was issues. i pointed to the space and she wrote it down in a book along with my passport number. she asked me to sign a space and i took my package.

the writing on the front of the package was very familiar. it was my father’s quick, block letters that seem to take over the whole page.

the package contained two things: a ball of some sort of christmas decorations and a bag of my mother’s famous chocolate chip cookies. the cookies were smashed beyond recognition. the bottom seventy percent of the bag was nothing but dust-like crumbs. the top still held a few pieces that were relatively in tacked. they were about one tenth of the size of a normal cookie.

i threw a piece into my mouth as i left the post office. it was sweet and chewy and memories came flying back. the ancient stove we used to cook on when i was a child. the giant blender that was always filled to the brim with cookie dough and barely had enough room to add the chocolate chips and nuts at the end. the whirling beaters that were always a centimeter from cutting your fingers off. the plastic spatula that we used to stir it all and the sink filled with dirty measuring cups, teaspoons and other things that needed to be washed. the joy of dolloping cookie dough onto a hot pan, always trying to sneak a large cookie into the oven under the watchful eye of my mother. the anticipation of watching them brown behind a stained, glass door. the ever so dangerous act of removing them from the oven and placing the hot pan on top, one slight move and you were done for. then, the wait. you must wait and wait and wait until they are cool enough to remove them from the pan. that wait was the worst. the piercingly soothing smell of the chocolate and browned dough wafting though the kitchen was enough to make anyone go crazy. once they were removed and placed on the kitchen table, it was time to take out a mug of cold milk, a warm cooking with all of its insides melted and gooey, and dip, soak and slurp up the rich goodness. that was heaven.

i stood on the street eating the crumbs and thinking.