One Extra Roll

The hill was already dotted with blankets by the time Emma’s family arrived.

Every June and every November, the same people gathered here to watch the meteor shower. Some came with telescopes. Some came with cameras. Most came with lawn chairs, snacks, and stories they’d told a dozen times before.

Emma’s family always chose the same spot near the old maple tree.

Her younger brother spread the blanket while her mom unpacked the cooler.

Emma reached into the side pocket without thinking.

Her fingers closed around a small roll of peppermint mints.

She held it for a moment before pulling it out.

“Did you remember the meteor mints?” her brother asked.

Emma smiled faintly.

“Of course.”

She had never forgotten.

Not once.

She laid the roll beside the napkins, then reached back into the bag and pulled out a second one.

Her mom noticed.

“You still buy an extra?”

Emma shrugged.

“I guess.”

No one questioned it.

Years ago, Dad had started bringing mints to every meteor shower.

It wasn’t planned.

The first year he’d tossed a roll into the picnic basket at the grocery store because they were by the checkout.

Halfway through the evening he’d offered one to the family beside them.

The next year he bought two rolls.

Then three.

Eventually everyone on the hill knew that if you wanted a mint, you found Emma’s dad.

He always brought extras.

After he died, no one talked about whether they should keep bringing them.

Someone just picked up a pack before the next meteor shower.

Then someone remembered to buy an extra.

Now it was simply what they did.

Not because anyone had decided it.

Because no one could imagine arriving without them.

Emma set the second roll beside the first and looked toward the sky.

The first stars were beginning to appear.

Somewhere across the hill, someone laughed.

Another family was just arriving.