Peppermints made him think of his grandfather’s crème de menthe, and winters in Connecticut. The thick snow outside, the warm house, and the minty aroma from the tumbler in his rough hands, all brought back fond Christmas memories. The house was bigger then, as he was much smaller. Even though his brother and he had to share a bunk bed with their parents back then, it was more. There was substance here not found back home that spoke of life: love, laughter, sadness, and grief. As though the emotions were absorbed into the wood-paneled walls as easily as the warmth from the fireplace. Peppermints were a gateway to a distant past that ended with his grandfather’s passing. That first remembered death, and a depth of loss not fully realized by a child. Peppermints were comfort and sorrow, much like everything else in life.