As a child, I remember gazing up at the top shelves of my father’s trailer, too high up for me to reach but eye-catching enough for me to wish to hold the meticulously placed items in my small hands. 
They’re collectibles, or at least that’s what my dad always told me. 
Curving lines of Coke cans littered the shelves. Their freshly waxed red faded to a rusty dull from the years of dust and erosion that wasted their youthful vibrancy to a deathly comparison of what they once were. Maybe it was the dust and rust that made me question their worth, but I never voiced my thoughts.
I was a silent detective when I was younger. I would sneak at night—socked feet gliding across the creaking hardwood floor, not chancing the risk of a step and awakening my mom. I used to creep to the garage, cracking the door just enough to slide through the opening. The temperature was always cooler in there, especially at night. If it was winter, my breath would puff white phantoms into the darkness. 
Once I had broken in, I would carefully unstick the fridge door, gently removing the grease-covered seal at just the right spots because I knew where it threatened to rip. If it did break, my mom would know immediately that I was snooping around.
The fridge was nothing special, nor did it really have anything special in it. Unless you count two packs of thirty-six count bright blue Bud Light to be special. I never did.
The beer was mom’s, but the Coke was ours. I wasn’t allowed to drink pop when it was late, especially on school nights. And I always had to ask permission before I could drink one. This is why sneaking was a necessity.
When I would finally get the fridge door to flap open, the light would shine a muted orange through the garage. There were silhouettes of boxes and totes we never got around to unpacking from when we moved in a few months ago, and I knew from experience they would stay boxed up until the next move. They shone like crumbling mountains in the dingy cramped space. Yet, inside the fridge, specks of bright candy apple red would flicker to life above the sea of blue cans —like mini fires burning in the ocean. 
I’d grab a Coke. Feel its iciness on the pads of my fingers. Smell the damp ground under my feet. Listen to the white noise in my ears. Wait to see if God would report me for my sins.
Maybe I never got in trouble because I always put the Coke back after looking at it. All I needed to do was inspect it. I was never thirsty.
The cans in my garage fridge were red with creamy white cursive. Unopened, but someday would be, metal rupturing after being bent. A sharp slice and a hiss of relief as the built-up tension wound its way out.
There’s nothing like the sound of cracking one open.
Were my dad’s Coke cans special because he never cracked them? Because he never indulged in their purpose? 
I preferred rootbeer.

❋ 

I’m still a child, but I’ve reached that point where I have a before and after. 
Standing in the dust-clogged parlor, I remember my childhood interest in my dad’s prized Coke can collection. I still wonder what conditions make something more valuable than others. Is it based on quality or simply a name that, when gazed upon and said aloud, brings joy to those nearby? Maybe it’s the memories attached to it.
Coke has a distinct flavor that can refresh the mind with snippets of previously drank cans. When I picture the familiar cheeky red and fizzing pop, I remember the can being surrounded by teeth-showing laughter and soggy puzzle pieces soaking in condensation since we didn’t own coasters. 
These are my memories, but I wonder what my dad remembered when he gazed at his collection.
This isn’t a wedding, nor a celebration of new life and beginnings. Yet, I can’t help but wonder why traditions can’t be shared from one occasion to another.
Something old, something new, something used, something blue…
The Pepsi can in my hand drips from the heat and sweat of my palms. 
The line I’m standing in is swollen with people sucking in dry April air. The room stays ablaze, no matter how many doors or windows are opened to ventilate the smell of snot and disinfectant. I stand behind my grandparents and mom, with my aunts, uncles, and cousins shuffling behind me. There are other guests roaming into the line, most likely my dad’s friends or coworkers, people I may or may not have met before. High heels click on linoleum and white dress shirts soak with perspiration and tears. 
My dad drank Pepsi, which is probably why I was always so interested in his Coke obsession — Why collect something you don’t even enjoy? 
There aren’t any steps leading up to the silk inlaid box, but I have to force my body to rise and meet my dad’s pale cheeks blushed pink and his resting eyes. I feel like a kid again, staring up at the shelf lined with rusty Coke cans and wondering why someone would want to look at something that doesn’t shine as bright as it once did. 
Why is the world so blue?
The Pepsi doesn’t sting my hands, but I wish it did.
Maybe I should have repented for all those nights of sneaking into my mom’s garage and cradling Coke cans. Would God have still kicked Adam and Eve out of the garden if they had never eaten the fruit of life but only held it in their palms and put it on display?
I suppose the quiet is answer enough.
My family doesn’t rush me. No one does. How can you rush a child at their father’s deathbed? But the Pepsi sweats and shakes and begs to be cracked open. I can feel the pressure slamming against the cheap aluminum. There’s a pack of Malboros someone had left for him already lying on his chest. I find it funny that someone thought to lay his killer over his lungs. I wonder if all people put the thing that killed them over the area of the body that caused them to die. Or maybe it's a testimony, a revolt, a confession.
There are a lot of things I do not know about life and death.
There is no sound when someone cracks open. At least, I don’t make a sound. I just feel. I feel the wet eyes that watch me walk up to the casket. I feel the plunging temperature of a corpse. I feel the Pepsi, now boiling inside, leave my hand and nestle in his arms.
My mom’s hands appear around my shoulders and help me righten the can so it sits nice, so everyone behind me can admire it.
I don’t remember where we bought the can. I probably asked my mom to stop at a gas station on the way, or maybe she asked me if I wanted to put something inside. Like a treasure chest. The aisles we walked down were cramped with color. The back wall held the coolers. When I opened the glass doors to the drinks, the cool moisture coated my hands and eyes. I’m a bit superstitious, so the first Pepsi I saw I knew was the one destined to come with me. 
Everyone has heard the common phrase, everything happens for a reason, but I actually believe that.
I wonder what the clerk would have thought if I told him I was buying the Pepsi for my dad. A parting gift for him. It must be terrible to work in a gas station.
Sometimes I think my dad collected Coke because my mom likes it. They’re divorced, but only because she cheated. He never loved anyone the same after her.
My hands are now empty and I don’t think I have the capacity for tears. I want to be able to see without a dewy lens distorting my future memories. I want to remember his heavy makeup and loose hairs. I want to remember the pack of Marlboros. I won’t remember red, only blue, because I want his life to not simply be a memory to collect dust on a shelf.