“Did everyone get one?” So I place the last case in the hospice bag. “Why did I choose this particular cookie this year? It’s my daughters’ favorite. And, oh, this cookie is the one I remember most from my grandmother. In fact, I don’t remember her making any other Christmas cookies. She made stollen, and fruitcake, and meringues, but only this cookie. And, I’ve been thinking a lot about her as I take on her role as a grandmother. She seems closer to me, even though she’s been dead since before Tara was born.” I stop myself and think, Amazing how the generations continue. How we repeat these ancient patterns if we want to, if we’re lucky. “Grandchildren have been the theme of my year.” And Jim. How startling that I should be becoming a grandmother the same year that I’ve fallen in love, taken on a younger lover, and maybe even found my partner for the rest of my life. “I guess this cookie is a grandmother-grandchildren cookie.” I laugh.

Then I see Tara’s small hands roll the balls of dough. Sky reaches into the bowl. In the memory, I observe only their hands as they roll the balls. Chipped pink-pearl polish decorates Sky’s nails. Tara, about four, smears the dough on her fingers and licks them. Sky carefully dusts her palms in flour and concentrates on forming round mounds with the same focus she employs for every task.

I clear my throat. “I remember helping my grandmother make pecan balls, and when they were little, Tara and Sky helped me. I was on the phone with Sky while I made these.” I place my index finger over my bruised cheek. “That’s how I got this. Multitasking.” Before I began speaking I hadn’t realized how these cookies were echoes of previous generations. In a few years, I vow, I’ll make them with Sky’s daughter and Tara’s son. Chuckling to myself as I remember how the kitchen looked when Tara and Sky finished cooking, half the batter in their stomachs, the rest on their hands and the floor. Even then, the joy and fun outweighed the mess.

People in the kitchen cooking together. Almost as much fun as people eating together. Almost right up there with sex.

“Now, it’s Taylor’s turn.” I fold the shopping bags and place them in the recycling.

“Oh,” Juliet says, “I always hate it when the last one starts. It means the party’s almost over.”

“Doesn’t have to be. Charlene is spending the night. Stay as long as you want.”