Cherry Coke

The day I spilled my cherry coke. It wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to me that day, but it’s a moment I’ll cherish with a tight embrace of hatred.

It was dark. A nearly-summer night. We wore shorts with elastic waistbands and mismatched tank tops and baseball hats to cover our matted hair. A trip to the 7-Eleven around the corner was just the venture my sister had decided to take to cheer me up. My arms were thin and floppy and my stomach was accustomed to mac n cheese, candy and the occasional donut. Neglected. 

The heaviness of the day lived on my shoulders, but as we stepped into the cool rush of air under the fluorescent spotlights of that convenience store, I eyed the fountain soda machine, and my burdens began to melt. What is it about food and sugary drinks that wash away intense thoughts and fearful futures? Within the moments it takes to meet the end of a candy bar, I’m almost in a state of bliss. It’s not the sugar. The sugar hasn’t quite introduced itself to my bloodstream just yet. It’s the act of indulging in something so meaningless. Am I making a case for the addict? Perhaps, but I’ll admit, I’m not much better.

I grabbed a Snickers bar before returning to the boxy machine that swashed with bubbly flavors. I selected the largest paper cup. The embarrassingly big size. I filled it with small chunks of ice and pressed it against the lever that dispensed Cherry Coke. I could smell the therapy as it rushed over the beautiful mountain of ice. 

I tucked the candy bar under my arm and used two hands to supervise the drink onto the checkout counter. Almost there. We got back into the car, and I tucked the fragile cup into the dainty cup holder of my sister’s Subaru. A cup holder shaped like a robot claw, expanding with the drink size. My drink was extra big, but it seemed to fit. 

Home was around the corner. Everything would be OK, right? We’d sit on the couch, drink our drinks and eat our candy. For a moment, I knew that my life would be enjoyable even if in an ignorant state of bliss. Sometimes an evening of escape is the only way to make it through the pain. Like a shot of novocaine or a sleeping pill to make the bedtime thoughts scurry away. It’s fine to live in moments that aren’t laden with thought or responses or even emotions. Sometimes life can be lived without knowing you’re living it at all. Just for a moment. 

We made a U-turn to reach my sister’s street. I didn’t see it wobble and had no warning of it’s wiggle, but somehow it happened. My Cherry Coke broke free from the claw and tipped completely upside down. The lid gave in to the rush of liquid, and the drink emptied onto the floor mat of my sister’s car. Gone. Our faces barely flinched. The mess was made and my sliver of bliss was soaking into old fabric.

There were too many things to cry about that I didn’t consider showing emotion over the drink. It was a disaster of a mess, and we didn’t know where to begin to tackle it. I’ll be honest, when I remembered this cherry coke incident, I simply began to write about it. To describe it. It’s a moment we reference now with smiles made out of bits of frowns. Something to smack our palms to our foreheads and laugh about, yet the sting hits somewhere in the middle of the giggle, telling me there’s something I’m forgetting.

Just the smell of Cherry Coke brings me back to that time when life was tilted and broken. The tiny moments of all those months sewed a blanket of sadness, and now time has led my memories away from the tiny details, but one whiff of that soda reminds me that tough seasons are made up of weeks, days, hours, minutes and moments of spilled Cherry Cokes. Seconds of sorrow. Countless pressed-on smiles, many tears held captive, too many “I’m OKs” and a pile of heavy exhales. 

It’s easy to forget the minutes that make up the hurt, and maybe I have God to thank for that. That I can’t recount each piece of the feeling, that is, until I come across a Cherry Coke.