cookie crumbles” Joana Arimany i Malik

“That’s the way the cookie crumbles” Joana Arimany i Malik / 1r de Batxillerat

LLENGUA ANGLESA_1R PREMI

Dorothy vividly remembers the smell of delicious baked cookies in her grandmother’s kitchen and how she was being chased by her brothers Michael and Bart for eating the last one. She remembers the breeze of fresh clothes from the laundry room and the aroma of flowers in the old neighbour’s garden during the spring bloom.

Over the years she has seen misfortunes but also beautiful sceneries of green countryside and sunsets that were safely captured on camera.

She has heard birds chirping every other morning and the tone of infectious laughs. She has danced to the sound of the three-tempo waltzes and moved her head to the rhythm of catchy songs.

She has walked barefoot after a summer storm and felt the wet grass. Not only has she held sweaty hands but also caressed and braided soft hair when things did not feel right.

She has burnt her tongue when tasting hot soup and quenched her thirst with lemonade from the beginning of June till the very end of September. She has enjoyed every single crumb of homemade blueberry pies and cookies during tea time.

In her bedroom, which she no longer recognizes, she is taking a walk down memory lane of those early happy moments as she is looking through the window down into the street at how people carry on with their busy lives. A little girl is holding a pot with purple and red petunias while her mother is searching for her wallet in a messy purse. A couple is looking at a store window with shiny rings, smiling at each other with blushed cheeks. An old man with a winter-white moustache has just left the bakery whistling a melody with a baguette under his arm.

198 “Mother!” A sudden deep voice scares Dorothy. She looks behind her to find a middle-aged man with dark hair and hazelnut brown eyes, exactly like hers.

“Mother, how are you feeling today?”, he asks. Dorothy hesitates, not knowing what to say. “Sorry, you must be confused.” Dorothy answers abruptly and with no emotion looks at him as if he were a stranger and turns back to the view of her window. The middle-aged man cannot hide a pity expression. “Dorothy, it is me, your son,” clarifies the man like many other days, in vain. “But of course, how silly of me,” replies Dorothy with her innate resilience, as she always does in an attempt to disguise her memory lapses. “Come on mother, the children left cookies on the kitchen counter for you downstairs.” Dorothy’s eyes do sparkle this time. “I must hurry up then, I would not like Michael and Bart to finish up the cookies without me.”