top of page
  • Writer's pictureKimberlee Runnion

Morsels of Memory

Mama, I don’t remember. I was too young.

I think you’ll remember more than you think you will.

No, I won’t. I don’t know this place.

But I remembered the front door.

I remembered the field.

I remembered the hill.

And I remembered the office that had lemon drops,

I remembered the office with cinnamon candy.

The office with chocolate.

And through those tastes, I remembered the faces of the women who handed me those tiny morsels from their desks.

Faces long since retired.

Mom, I’m excited to go back, to see what I remember.

She smiles; she knows.

I remember the front door

but its paint is chipped; it is not the grand entryway I thought it was.

I remember the field

but it was smaller this time.

I remember the hill

but my 30-year-old body can’t find what my 3-year-old body thought was a hill.

When we came to the floor of offices—

the floor with lemon drops and cinnamon candy and chocolate—

the offices were gone.

They had renovated.

I could taste the lemon drops, my tongue moistening with the memory,

my heart dropping at this loss.

Mom, you’ll love this administrator. When she and I have stressful conversations, we always end by running to grab chocolate. We go to the office with peppermint patties.

Or sometimes we go to the office that has peanut butter cups.

She laughs.

I know offices by their candy.

I know offices by the faces of the women who share sweet moments with me,

moments shared over tiny morsels.

#seminary #memory #poetry


Recent Posts

See All

The Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15: 11–32) always leaves a bit to be desired for me…at least with traditional interpretations. Depending on which character we "side" with, we may feel a sense of

originally prayed at Open Cathedral in Leander, TX Let us cry out to God. Let us cry out loud so that God can hear us.[1] Let us pray. During the day, when we are in trouble, we look for our God. At n

bottom of page