Dad would often have a Bloody Mary
after he finished mowing the lawn,
the spicy tomato juice concoction
in a tumbler that said “Name Your Poison”
with a glass swizzle stick he used to stir it.

He strode up the back yard to our house
in a sweaty, gasoline-stained t-shirt,
walked into the kitchen, took the gin
from a cabinet and poured himself a round, 
perspiration beading his ice-filled glass.

Once he let me take a sip as well, 
though I was just a kid. His clammy arm draped
around my shoulder, he steadied the drink
in my small hands with one of his own,
then laughed at how my face screwed up in disgust.

The color looked like fruit punch to me
and I thought I was in for a treat
that he allowed me to sample it,
but what a disappointment to find out
the flavor was not at all appealing.

Decades later, my tastes have changed. 
These days when I have a Bloody Mary,
I swear the essence of cut grass 
is in the mix with other garnishes:
dill pickle, olive, horseradish, celery.

What flows over the palette, past the tongue
connects with memory in a way
that is more potent than other senses,
awakening the mind to recall
a scene long gone by, almost forgotten.