If I wanted to take my own life
in my late twenties, it was because
I loved my father.

I loved him so much, I used to wait
by the front door every weekday
before six, when he entered.

I grabbed his leg, and we walked
to the den, where he prepared
a drink of bourbon.

He turned on the TV, and we took
a seat on the couch, started the night’s
play until bedtime.

The drink got in my way of the play
enough that I asked him to remove
the drink.

He would not remove the drink, like
a proper running back with the ball,
so I changed tacks.

I was five years old.

My mind worked in its quick, young
pace, and I changed tacks to ask Dad
to have a sip.

Dad said no a few times, “No, Billy,
this is an adult drink.” But one day
he broke down…

He gave me his last sip. Became a nightly
tradition. Mom was in the kitchen, talking
with friends.

She was talking about divorcing my dad.
I didn’t just learn how to drink a toxic
liquid, no.

I learned how to keep something from
Mom. I learned that my favorite person
liked the drink,

and now I was in his club, so that when
the drinks were passed around at
twelve, I was ready to fall.

I was blacking out on the substance
by thirteen. What was I not doing?
I did not love.

I did not know how to express love.
Dad loved my Mom, but could not
express it.

She fired him.  And with his departure,
my best friend was no longer there
on weekdays.

I was alone.  I had two skills to go
out and fight the world:  Sports playing,
and alcohol drinking.

Those “skills” were not enough to love
women or life.  And I was suicidal and
depressed by twenty-five.