In my youth, I picked from the mini fridge

of all-you-can-drink cans with my father,

CAT scan repairman,

until the hospital funding evaporated.

He bottled up a six-pack of children and his lovely drink of water,

then moved us from East Coast to West.

Outside our new home, an ear-splitting POP-POP,

shook my eight-year-old nerves on a cola-black night.

Rotating blades chopped through the sky,

stirring up neighborhood criminals night after night,

as siren-song oozed through the streets.

An artificial search for peace.

Mom stacked pallets of soda on our sunny back porch

from her desk job at the Seven-Up packing plant.

Poolside parties and pirated movies were even more pleasant

with a sizzling snap and tickling foam.

When money was tight, bubbles rose to the top

where pressure finally popped.

The can of pride, too easy to crush

in a time when cut cards meant “Declined.”

Drinking down the bitterness of bankruptcy

Fights fizzed from my parents’ throats,

Burning as they came

in sugar-free words that stung.

Yet life sloshed on, and so did we.

Carbonation paired perfectly with a dollar burger

eaten outside of a baseball game,

which we watched from high on the hill.

Our roots were sweeter with homemade molasses.

Wedding cakes made with a splash of Mom’s flair.

Grandbabies arrived, sprinkled in dew,

and Dad captured each drop on film.

Until health twisted into disease

that demanded dialysis

and took sight, speech,

and more than a limb or two.

Life became flat when Dad melted away.

A tepid drink, hard to swallow.

Faith, the only tonic that could lift us

from the bottom of the glass.

On slow bubbles, we rose.

Now my own children pick from limited cans,

more wise from the lessons I learned.

Ice cubes dancing on the effervescence

of a lasting liquid legacy.