sugar cookie

Nanny used to bring my brother and I special sugar cookies. Coming in individual, white containers that opened like clam shells, they were more frosting than cookie. Usually there was a smiling brown bear, balloons or flowers on top. The squish and crunch mingled together in our mouths and on our messy cheeks and chins. We were kids raised to appreciate a good cookie.

That day the frosting was smeared. Peaks of it stuck to the cellophane of the box lid.

"I'm sorry about your cookies." Nanny said to us. Her veiny arms were bruised, attached to hands offering the imperfect cookies.

I didn't understand "car accident". All I knew was that my cookie was ugly. 

Both Nanny and her car looked ok. I was unsure how to express that I was upset. That I was worried about Nanny and her bruises like everyone else. Instead I took the cookie and walked away.