I sit in the wooden pew. The green cushion gives ever so slightly under me as I take my spot. I sit there every week without fail. I keep my eyes trained forward on the screens up front as they rotate slides full of announcements. That's when I hear it. The shuffling of brown leather shoes walking down the aisle. The flutter of fabric from a suit as a body slides into the pew behind me. I hear a grunt as old bones creak their way into the seat. And I smile.
I turn in my seat, throwing my left arm over the back of the pew and looking over my shoulder at my Papaw. I give him my most mischievous smile. He returns it with bright, crinkled eyes and a small chuckle. "Oh I know what you're after," he says with no small amount of amusement in his voice. He fishes down into his pocket, and then extends his hand toward me. We clasp hands and hold them there together for just a moment. I giggle as I feel the exchange of a mint from his hand to mine.
Every week. Every week he handed me a wintergreen mint produced from his jacket pocket. I don't recall when the tradition began. He just always seemed to have them. But I do remember when the tradition ended. My Papaw died in April 2020, and I will never again feel that old, gnarled hand pass me a mint.
I really couldn't begin to fathom the implications of losing my Papaw. I have never experienced a death in the family before now. Death was something abstract. But now... now... it's real.
It became real when I walked into the funeral home and saw him lying in a casket. I walked in with my family, and tears began to fall freely from each of us. We stood by him, and for the first time it all sunk in for me. He was gone. I looked at his closed eyes and couldn't help but remember them crinkled and bright. I looked at his hands and remembered the feel of them in my own. And I looked at his jacket, so pristine. There should have been a mint in that pocket.
I reached into my own pocket, and pulled out one of those same mints. I took a step forward and felt the casket's cold side against my leg. I reached my hand out and placed that mint where it belonged in his jacket pocket. And I cried.
I still don't really understand the implications of losing my Papaw. It really won't sink in until my birthday rolls around and he's not here. Or when he's not here at Thanksgiving. Or Christmas. There are memories to be made, and he's not going to be here to make them with me. But I have the memories of plenty of mints in clasped hands. Those minty memories will be with me for years to come.