Cookies

"I'm getting old and lazy," she said as she sipped her coffee and nibbled on a chocolate chip cookie.
"After ninety-five years, I figure I have a right to be lazy."

"So," I responded, smiling, "what does old and lazy look like to you, my dear?"

"Well, I get up in the morning at my leisure, take my time getting washed and dressed, sip on some coffee, look out the window, and eventually make my way to the living room or the patio. Sometimes I eat lunch, sometimes I don't, and then the rest of the day I can do whatever I want, really." She sips some coffee and has another bite of a cookie, offering me one from the plate.

Taking a cookie, I bite into it as we look into each other's eyes and smile, sharing the simultaneous experience of the flavor of the cookie, the brilliant New Mexican light, and the fresh September breeze coming through the dining room screen door.

"Do you feel like your needs are being met? Are you happy with the care you're receiving? Is there anything you need?" I put my cookie down on the plate in front of me.

She looks very thoughtful. "After so many years, I have no complaints. It's been a wonderful life. My kids love me and care for me. You people come to help me. The house is beautiful and I can see the sky and the mesa out there." She points vaguely towards the window. "I'm happy. I really am."

We each take another bite of a cookie, and she pats the head of the family dog who has buried his head in her lap.

"Have another cookie," she says, and smiles.