She loved Pepsi on ice. She wouldn’t let herself drink it every day, at most only once or twice a week. I think that way, it was still something special. She was good at that, making little things remarkable. Things like story time and bubblegum, leaves pressed between the pages of a heavy book, flower seed catalogs and nail polish. To this day, a tall glass of iced Pepsi is summertime on the porch with her. I watch the condensation dripping down the sides to pool underneath and can still hear her humming along to the wind whipping across the Kansas prairie. Just like Mom, I don’t have Pepsi very often. And it does make it special: it makes me think of her.