The Memory of Taste

I hadn’t seen that brand in years.
Three chews and the taste of the clove gum
Put me back at Grandma’s.
She always carried two packs
In the pocket of her apron
Along with stitched handkerchiefs
That she sewed
By the light of a kerosene lantern
Even though she had electricity.
She used it sparingly.
Every day at three her radio was tuned in
To an evangelist
Out in California.
She was strong in her devotion to him.
She mailed him a new dollar bill
Faithfully, every week.
He returned the gesture
By sending her a measure of prayer cloths
He’d personally prayed over.
Neither the cloths nor the preacher
Had the power to save Grandma
The afternoon she died
While napping on her divan
Two packs of clove gum in the pocket of her apron
A handkerchief in her hand
The kerosene lantern out
The radio on.