Imprint

Imprint
2/10/21

He pulled the tab of the beer can.
It made that familiar metallic snap
immediately followed by that hiss.
The sounds he’d heard
thousands of times before.
This was different.
It had been years since the last time.
Back then, he’d been able to
open two cans at once,
one with each hand.
He’d chug them down back to back,
finishing a case in a matter of minutes.
He was proud of that, and would
accept any challenge that came his way.
One case in 5 minutes.
Why not two cases in 10?
It never occurred
it wasn’t actually a talent.
Not until the night
he woke up behind the wheel,
staring straight into the
headlights of that Peterbilt.
He veered just in time
to miss the truck’s massive metal grill
and certain death.
When he gained control,
he sat on the shoulder
shaking,
crying,
cursing,
promising
that he’d never do that again.
He didn’t know if he was promising
himself or his god,
but it was a promise he intended to keep.
That was many years ago.
The memory of the night
still shook him to his core.
But today, that memory would be
annihilated by a new,
even more unthinkable one.
Today, he buried his baby girl.
With pain and sorrow
throbbing and stabbing its way through
every cell of his body, heart and soul,
the only thing he knew how to do was open that can.