Tia K. Peterson
We keep finding them,
these mints. Our memories
are hard to control; we have so many:
the smell of mothballs
from the musty old closet
where we kept our toys, the singing
reindeer she brought out
at Christmas, the tissues
she always kept stuffed in her bra.
I unwrapped another:
The Wheel of Fortune on the old
black and white TV. Then the organ
I never seemed to get the hang
of. The way we rode our bikes up
and down the driveway while she
gave us “speeding tickets.” The time
she slapped my brother’s wrist.
I suck on these mints and remember
there is nothing like
the way she spoke, like the way
she let us join her in her chair.
There is nothing like the taste
of these mints, as they grow
smaller inside my mouth.