Father's Day

Good evening,

I started writing this blog just ten days ago or so. Thought I would write a poem a day and that went down the crapper. Anyway, who cares? A poem a day, a recipe a day, a something a day just to prove... what? So I need to remember what this was truly about for me. How I need to be able to say anything I want. Somewhere. Sometime. No matter what. And no matter who reads it.

Even if no one reads it.

I started writing this when I decided to quit drinking and go to, let's be real, go BACK to AA. Once upon a  time I was a bonafide alcoholic. Then after twelve years of abstinance, I became a problem drinker. And I have spent the last ten years, almost eleven, trying to prove to myself that I was simply someone who loved good wine. When I quit drinking at the age of thirty-two (the first time), I gave up $5.00 a gallon wine from Argentina and taking my clothes off at parties. This time... I truly gave up the most important thing in my life. And I miss it every minute. I go to AA and I want to drink. I even want to drink in the morning and I never ever wanted to and never ever did it.

Cunning and baffling.

An AA meeting tonight, a miracle of friends and I want to drink. But instead I'm going to have some Ben & Jerry's. But really, it isn't the same.

I'm dying to know just how sad I really am. That is one of the reasons I've been able to stay sober on what is now day 18. I'm insanely curious to find out just how sick I really am.

FATHER'S DAY

My father died nine years ago today or tomorrow
Around Father's Day, that much I remember.
I remember because we all went to see him.
He was staying with my brother and had lost all of his weight.
I can't imagine how much pain he felt. His foot had gangrene.
One lung gone the other... going.
We had just buried my mother. She died in February.
Fourteen days after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
They told us, my father and me. We were there together. He was hanging on for dear life itself.
He was given three months that very day.
And my mother slipped off her wedding rings and gave them to me.
She never said a word.
She never said another word.
What I remember now about her wake was seeing her in the coffin.
She looked like she had a tan.
Of course, she looked nothing like herself.
The crowd of people were almost gone.
Just a few stragglers and my brothers.
My sisters.
My kids.
Me.
And my father bent  down to hug my mother.
Only once had I ever seen him hug her. He held her a long time.
And then we all left.
I got out the door and I thought, she's still in there! We can't go!
But we did and then my father disappeared into his cancer for real.
The humor gone, the cruelty of our past very dim.
He told me he was strong enough for this and he hoped I was.
I don't know if I was.
Nine years ago I had started to drink again.
I'm sure I drank the night he died. Oh, right, yes.
A bottle in his mobile home. Wine. Probably three years old. It had been opened.
I drank it.
Good night, father. Pray for me. I'm going to find you again. If I can.

Thank you,
Maura at Night