He finished reading a novel
about Auschwitz. It gripped
him — the vivid descript-
ions of what had happened

to millions while he was a
baby secure, warm, loved. It
was only seventy years that
the gas chambers closed.

He was mesmerized by the
insight to human nature by
the novelist and horrified
at the same time by the sub-

ject matter. Only seventy
years ago. He picked up a
suspense novel by one of his
favorite authors. As she de-

tailed the familiar Arizona
landscape, she described the
bludgeon, rape, dismemberment
murder one and then another.

He sighed, put the book down
and went to fetch a Windmill
cookie from the kitchen cab-
inet just to comfort himself

with all the good feelings and
memories with which those cook-
ies filled him. He was feeling
really fit and good and healthy

after minor medical attention
to issues that were no longer
lingering in his body not to
mention his mind. He looked

out the window at the lake
effect snow swirling and the
inches building, obliterating
one yard from another until

the neighborhood was one
soft, white blanket, which
could freeze a person to
death. He would be glad

to get on the road to Ari-
zona in a few days. Short-
ly, he would return to the
murder and mayhem on his

couch but not before another
detour to the kitchen. He
thought about how much
time he might have left in

this world. And then he
thought about seventy years
and what had happened just
that short number of years

ago. The vivid imagery of
the novel would haunt him
on the drive west. He would
bring Windmill cookies.