Capacity

When I was young, a can of soda was dense and un-crushable. My hand, holding it, had to stretch almost to it's capacity. I opened the can by pulling up and back on a ring tab, peeling away a teardrop-shaped razor thin slice of metal.

I learned early not to touch those teardrops. I learned how they felt sliding across the pad of a fingertip, drawing red.

When I was young, I mixed Pepsi and milk -- and ate pretzels with it, letting the crunch and fizz mix in my mouth.

I have a block of polished aluminium perched on my desk. The rectangle of metal is engraved with a question: "What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?" When I run my finger over the words, they are smooth and cold. Dust falls away.

This whiskey tastes horrible. Metallic, even with the melting ice thinning things out.

When I opened my eyes, the moments, and years, started falling away. I can't remember the first thing that I saw. Nor the first thing that I felt. Yesterday, I watched Autumn leaves swirl and mix in the cool air. Tumble down. The density in the days is much lighter, now. I am not sure if I have learned a great deal in almost 41 years.

But I do remember how my hand had to stretch to hold a greater capacity.