‘What’s your poison?’ she asked with lips painted a color I had not seen on a woman in thirty years. Revlon Rum Raisin. Ma had left the smooch on my cheek before picking up her bags and walking out the door. She had fallen in love with someone else, a man of the cloth funnily enough. After a few hours of morose whisky talk, Pa got up and wiped my cheek with a paper napkin and kept it in his drawer of Bic pens. I found it the day he died–from double pneumonia. He’d been caught in a storm.