With a twist, the air escaped from the confines of my Dr.
Pepper. That familiar, sweet scent wafted up, and for a moment I hesitated. It
had been several months since I had last tasted the special 23-flavor blend.
Grabbing the bottle, I pushed my thoughts aside and took a first, glorious
sip. The bubbly sensation poured over my tongue, the sweet nectar filling my
mouth. With the familiar taste came a flood of memories.
My mind ventured back
to that first year at McDonald’s- the late nights and early mornings endured by
consuming copious amounts of Dr. Pepper. More than the nostalgia of french
fries and soda, however, another memory pushed to the front of my mind: tough
hands, the metallic scent of engine oil, wire-rimmed bifocals, and, of course,
a Maverick mug that seemed to never run out of Dr. Pepper. My grandfather’s
scruffy face and faded eagle tattoo flashed across my memory, and the medley he
used to sing played so clearly in my mind that his voice almost seemed audible.
As the moment passed, I felt a pang in my heart. Another memory came forward
intruding on my happy recollections. This one appeared dim and bleak- a funeral
home in the middle of January. My grandpa, the man once filled with laughter,
song, and buttermilk was now laying still and cold in the confines of a forever
sleep. In the cemetery, three families awkwardly gathered.
His first wife and
their only surviving daughter were still reeling from the loss of the eldest
daughter two months prior.
His young third wife and her teenaged children
sobbed. Theirs was the most noticeable loss. The man who changed their world
now lay in a box, stiff.
Then there was my family, the sandwich family. The
jovial figure of my childhood had long since abandoned us. But it wasn’t
entirely his fault. A chemical imbalance, that’s what they called it. He had
fallen into a decade of madness, rescued only by his young lover and her
adolescent children. Meanwhile, his disappearing act left his adoring
grandchildren and devoted children. My grandmother, his second wife, was forced
to live with mere memories of her sweetheart, her soul mate who had succumbed
to his demons.
Love, sorrow, bitterness, anger, and regret all stood around the
burial plot, saying one final goodbye to this marvelous and tortured man.
By this point, the pang in my chest had developed into
salt-water reserves, dammed up in my tear ducts. I set the Dr. Pepper down and
rejoined the present company. I quietly tightened the lid back onto the bottle,
picked up a pen, and proceeded to write about a beloved grandfather, a memory,
and a bottle of Dr. Pepper.
