Something's different

He sloshes through the stained snow on his was to training.
It's almost a mile from the temporary group home.
He worked the late shift last night,
cleaning and waxing floors.
It's been almost fifteen years since he had a job.
Since he had to wake to an alarm that he set.
Since he had to buy and make his own meals.
The training has helped.
It's amazing how much he forgot, or never knew at all.
He didn't know his dad, and his mom wasn't much of a homemaker.
She did what she could for him and his three sisters,
but most of the time, she spent in the bar, trying to forget her problems.
He didn't blame her.
She made sure they all got to school.
It was great that the church down the street donated socks and sweat shirts and pants
once a year, because the clothes they did have were only washed when his mom
stumbled into some extra money.
He hated the way some of the other kids held their noses when he walked by,
but what could he do?
Occasionally his mom would throw the clothes away when she went to the food bank.
There was a hand me down store there where they got free clothes.
He liked the church clothes better.
Those clothes were new.
It had
felt like his birthday.

When he was fifteen, he skipped school, again.
This time, he went into the gas station around the corner with his two friends.
They were going to get a pop.
One of his friends had another idea though, but it was too late to stop him.
He pulled out his dad's gun and told the clerk to give him the money.
The clerk was scared, and fumbled at the register.
His friend was afraid too.
The gun went off and the clerk died.
Fifteen years later, he was walking down the street, on his way to learn how to pay his bills.

It wasn't even worth it.
Why go through all this trouble to learn to pay bills,
make a budget, learn to make a grilled cheese sandwich, without burning the kitchen down,
and how to be polite enough to the manager of the store he cleaned every night,
so he wouldn't get fired for telling him to shove this stupid job.

As he walked in the door to the building and over to the third room,
he saw a few familiar faces.
Their faces looked as noncommittal as his own.
They were all supposed to be learning skills,
and listening to the church fella with all the tattoos
tell them about the way life was supposed be.
He was a good guy, but he had never been in prison before. 
What did he know.

He made his way to the registration table,
scrawled his name with his large, callused hand,
and grabbed a coke.
Something was different today though.
Instead of the tootsie pops that were always set out,
there was a big bowl of cookies.
Where did these come from?
They smelled so good.
They looked so good!
These were not store bought cookies.
They were round but not really round, kind of misshaped.
The preacher said he could have four,
and if there were any left, he could take some home.
He wondered who had spent their day making all these cookies.
There must be at least twelve dozen or more chocolate chip cookies here.
Everyone had the same reaction.
Each man got real quiet when he got to the table.

He inhaled deeply.
Oh, it smelled so good.
He inhaled again.
He couldn't smell the moldy room anymore.
He took a small bite, and it was so very good.
A memory of his grandmother came to his mind. His mom's mom.
When he was only three or four, they lived with his grandparents until Grandpa died.
Grandma died right after that.
Mom said she couldn't live without him.
They had to move then, and things were never good again.

But he remembered Granny making
chocolate chip cookies every Saturday morning.
She let him help stir with the big wooden spoon in the bowl that seemed bigger than he was,
as she added cup after cup of flour to the butter and sugar.
Then he helped her form the perfect spoonful balls of cookie dough onto the pan.
He even remembered them sharing the last bit of dough together,
cause it wouldn't make a good sized cookie anyway.
He could remember the smell of the kitchen when the cookies were baking.
He thought he remembered the scent seeming to linger for days.
Grandma always made a few batches to take to church the next morning.
They would all gather after preaching for coffee and cookies.
Those were happy times.
He hadn't thought about granny or church is years.
It had always made him sad, so why think of those times.

But now, as he ate another cookie, more slowly this time,
it seemed like the best thing to think on.
He listened to the church fella today, as he ate the cookies.
He was talking about peace. It made sense today.
He didn't feel rushed or angry right now.
The rest of the ex cons, were listening too.
No talking or heckling the preacher as was usual.
It felt safe here.
He hoped he could hang onto this feeling,
this peace he seemed to have until the next time they met,
the day after tomorrow.
He would try.
What a nice thing for someone to do for them.
Home baked cookies.
He wondered if there would be cookies next time.
He decided that this would be a good day.