Sunday, May 17, 2009

A Story about Cookies . . . and Life

The following is an awesome story I heard a few months ago. A day or so ago I recieved it as part of a newsletter from our commercial real estate broker. I liked it so much I thought I would pass it on. (Please note that I typed it in as written in the newsletter. As a writer, the liberal use of exclaimation marks made me a bit squeamish, but the message in the story compensated for them).

It is entitled simply, The Cookies.

A young lady was waiting for her flight in the boarding room of a big airport. As she would need to wait many hours, she deieded to buy a book to spend her time. She also bought a packet of cookies. She sat down in an armchir, in the VIP room of the airport, to rest and read in peace.

Beside the arm chir where the packet of cookies lay, a man sat down in the next seat, opening his magazine and started reading. When she took out the first cookie, the man took one also. She felt irritated but said nothing. She just thought: "What nerve! If I was in the mood, I would punch him for daring!" For each cookie she took, the man took one too. This was infuriating her but she didn't want to cause a scene.

When only one cookie remained, she thought: "What is this man to do mow?" Then, the man, taking the last cookie, divided it into half, givging her one half. Ah! That was too much! She was much too angry now! In a huff, she took her book, her things and stormed to the boarding gate. When she sat down in her seat, inside the plane, she looked into her purse to get her eyeglasses, and, to her surprise, her packet of cookies was there, untouched, unopened!

She felt so ashamed! She realized that she was wrong . . .she had forgotten that her cookies were in her purse. The man had divided his cookies with her, without feeling angered or bitter . . . while she was dividing her cookies with him. And now there was no chance to explain herself or to apologize.

There are some things that you cannot recover:
The stone . . . after it's thrown.
The word . . . after it's said.
The time . . . after it's gone.