“Could I have a bud, please?”
“Lite?”
“Oh, no, Budweiser. Sorry. And thanks.”
I felt the stares of the people I was with at the bar.
“I just haven’t seen anyone order Budweiser in ages. Or maybe ever.”
Said the friend who has returned to being a stranger to me again.
“I thought this classic beer would do for tonight.”
I didn’t need to tell him
he didn’t have to know
that when I drink Budweiser
I see a photograph
of a stone, park table
a few cans of Budweiser
vintage now
the sun, high, illuminating healthy, old trees
in the foreground
my father
in a white tee and denim button down
grinning
happy
his arm slung around his best friend
I didn’t need to tell him
he didn’t have to know
that when I drink Budweiser
I feel the brisk evening air
coming off the lake
as I watch Grampy
at his 70th birthday party
in his chair at the table on the patio
with Nana nearby
remembering
their ritual of cracking open their first evening beer together
and toasting to each other
before taking a sip
Musings 