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.