September 19, 2016 | Occasus | Issue 6 | Fiction

Mentos

He would say Mentos were invented in the Netherlands for kids like him who weren't allowed to chew gum in church. They would sit in the pews with straight spines and soap wedged under half dirty fingernails, satisfied with the hint of a secret under their tongues.
         
He would say they bought them in packs of three: two small ones and one big. Every Sunday he had a decision to make. Should he eat the big one during the sermon and the small ones after? Or would it be wiser to have it during the hymns? There could also be some value in eating it last, as a sort of grand finale. If he was feeling gluttonous, he would shove all three in his mouth at once and pray they would dissolve slowly. That was the only time he ever prayed in church, so he says. Said.
         
He would say they got caught once. He couldn’t remember his name anymore, but could still recall the boy with the pointed nose who crunched the big one between his teeth like an amateur. Still, the mischievous grins of the boys in the third row only got wider as, one by one, they spat out the candies into each mother’s outstretched palm.
         
He would say he always wanted his funeral to be in a church. And sitting here, at last, I know why. I pop some Mentos into my mouth with a tentative smile. They’re all the same size, but the taste, I figure, must be the same.
         
If he was here, he would say, son, this is what’s important. The coloured sunlight seeping through stained glass, the drowsy daze of monotony, the silence of the mind. In a chain of bare moments and halcyon days, remember the minty aftertaste of Sunday morning.

ESTHER VAN GALEN is pursuing an Honours Specialization in MIT and a minor in Writing.