Monster Cookies

It was in the middle of math class that he handed me the post-it note with his phone number.

"I'll call your parents and we can figure out a time for you to come over, okay?"

"Um, uh, how about tomorrow...?" with eyes downcast, voice a mumble.

"Well, I'm going to be getting my mom her Christmas tree tomorrow."

"Sunday then?"

He was one of God's children who didn't know his own name, not really. His hand went over his mouth because the words that came out might make him Less than he was while they were in his throat. His shoulders curved in a constant hunch and his arms knew the crossing of self-consciousness. When a smile did come, it was always accompanied by a quick glance up out of the corner of his eyes, half-guilty, not knowing if strangers like joy should be allowed inside.

The yard was amuck with the signs of a winter that can't make up its mind. Muddy and water-logged, we tromped up the steps.

Eyes darted, furtive, taking in the advent calendar on the wall, the photographs on the refrigerator, the cookie fixings sitting on the counter.

"Shall we make monster cookies? They're kind of a family secret."

Two and a half cups of peanut butter, nine cups of oatmeal, six eggs, white sugar, brown sugar, vanilla, baking soda, salt, chocolate chips, M&Ms slid, poured, cracked, sloshed.

It may seem silly, but there's a sort of knowing that comes in working shoulder to shoulder with hands deep in a mess of ingredients. A humanity that comes a bit nearer the surface, an unspoken yes, a movement toward the realization of our own names.