On car trips,
long, short,
everything in between,
mom brings a bag of hard candy
that she can never make last.

A peppermint finds its way
to her mouth
and she crunches down 
almost immediately.
She grabs another one and says
“I’ll make this one last
the next ten miles”
but in the same breath
it’s already gone.

I unwrap one
and it crumbles
under my teeth.
My mom laughs and says
“You got the biting gene.”

As each of us goes for another, she says
“surely this one,”
determined to make it last.

The car races on,
pavement blurring by
as the future takes me 
to my third city in four years.

Another peppermint
disappears down my throat–
jagged pieces of yet another tough pill,
and the sound of bone
grinds on bone as I think
“surely this one.”