They were not just off-brand Oreos. They were filled with hugs,
            not just sweet cream. A cookie traced with lace,
                    both vanilla and chocolate. She kept them
            in a clear bear container, friendly for a visit to the kitchen.

A fridge that held my long-distance letters, displaying
            special stickers.         Pictures of family,
                        reminding me that she
                                                                never forgot;
                                                                She always loved me.

It was not just off-brand Oreos; there were
                collector plates,
                a skylight pooling
                        through the afternoon,
               and each room was blessed
                                              with Jesus,
                       nailed on the cross. Always looking         after me
                as my bare feet patter         onto the blue carpet
                       then transition     to the kitchen,
                knowing Grandma would follow.

We would “find” the off-brand Oreos. A plastic bear
                        containing tasty treats,
                        filled with cream.

I held the empty sweetness in my mouth.
            Hush, she seemed to say,
                        and handed me one more cookie.
            That      was never      generic        to me.