Mint Tea, Circled

Tucked inside a cookbook, old,

a list, from long ago.

The secrets that it gently told,

of what we used to know.

Faded ink, a ghost of blue,

for things I don't buy now.

The cereal, the bread, the hue

of vegetables, somehow.

And then, a circled word, so plain,

'herbal tea, mint.' A sign.

A little twist of sudden pain,

a memory that's mine.

It's strange, the things we keep, we find,

that punch you in the gut.

A common list, left far behind,

with doors that will not shut.