Twenty-Won
I find myself at twenty-one
acutely aware of the sips I take,
especially during my darkest
battles with sadness and self-hate.
Your father was an alcoholic, you know.
You need to be careful about these things.
What mother fails to mention
was his crippling depression
or his adventurous lifestyle
or his utter happiness
or his terrible pain.
He was so much more
than his alcoholism,
the alcoholism that
he triumphed over
and conquered during
most of my life.
He was a recovering alcoholic, to me, always.
A sponsor to those struggling.
A beacon of light for those in the blackest darkness.
Anyway.
Today I found myself
in a staring contest
with a half drunk
bottle of wine at two
in the afternoon,
all the while picturing
my father’s dead
and decaying body
rolling over in his grave.
We hit a stalemate,
the bottle and I.
A few sips here and there,
but in the end,
the bottle went unfinished.
In fact, I’m staring right now
at a half drunk glass of
South African white wine
from this afternoon.
So who won? Who is winning?
Earlier this evening
I went to the pubs
with a few friends
and had a few pints.
Who is winning? Who won?
-J.Rendi
