There was always that one can. Parked right by the stove. Plain. Unmarked. Nothing special to look at.

You never poured bacon grease down the sink.
You saved it.
Because one day you might need it.
And most days, you did.

That little can held more than fat.
It held memory.
It held mornings by the stove.
It held the smell of breakfast before school.
It held Grandma humming softly while the skillet warmed.

Today, we toss things out without thinking.
We buy flavor in plastic bottles.
We chase convenience.

But that old coffee can was never just practical.
It carried a way of living.
One that knew how to make something good
from what was left behind.