Light blonde, baby-fine hair fell across a determined little face as chubby hands worked to flatten a resistant pile of cookie dough.  Chuckling to herself, Omi leaned over her granddaughter, enclosing those tiny hands with much stronger ones.  Together, with the aid of a cracked wooden roller, they defeated the stubborn dough.  A look of pride spread across the three-year-olds face, because every little thing is an accomplishment to a young child.  “Alright Miss Claudi, pick out the stencil you would like to use first!”  Her finger hovered for a moment over the cookie cutters in contemplation.  “I want to make a snake!”  “eine Schlange?!”  Omi paused, as if in deep thought, before she answered with, “Okay, but afterwards we use the stencils!   We want to make some authentic German cookies for St. Nick!”  It was December 5th, and the girl already had her prettiest pair of shoes polished and waiting by the front door for St. Nicholas to admire.  She would wake up early and race to the door to find small gifts and chocolate from the German Santa Claus.  In her grandmother’s kitchen, her baby feet danced in excitement atop the hand-painted step stool, something necessary in order to reach the counter.  It was then that she looked up at Omi with slightly narrowed eyes.  It could be that she was off in her own toddler world, perhaps distracted by the doughier matters at hand, but she had failed to, until now, notice something peculiar: Omi’s honeysuckle hair was super short again!  “Omi, your hair!” she exclaimed.  Omi wiped the mess from her hands and sighed, raising one palm to her forehead in exasperation.  “Your Omi is so silly.  She accidentally cut her hair too short again!”  A naive smile spread across the young girls face as she laughed, “You are silly!  I will help you next time!”  They both giggled and carried on with their indecipherable banter over sticky dough and old cookie cutters.  Once every stray scrap of dough had been accounted for, it was time to prepare a tray for the oven.  “These will bake for twelve minutes.  What’s that number in German, Claudi?” “Zwölf!”  All smiles.  Omi advised her granddaughter to step away- taking the cookies in and out of the oven was the only part they couldn’t work together on.  The two squatted down to peer at their masterpiece, the oven light illuminating their faces.  The toddler glanced joyfully at her loving grandmother’s profile, and then focused back on the wonder of what they had just created together.  Her large eyes marveled as the dough slowly began to rise, too innocent to relate it to the dreadful rise of cancer inside her Omi’s body.