The light above

             Cathy sent me a one line email.  It read, Michael’s drinking again.

            I laid my head down on my arms and started to cry such violent, bone-shattering sobs, that Louise ran into the room.  “What’s wrong?” she asked me.  My head still down, I jabbed at my screen.  After a moment I heard her say, “Shit.”

            “This is my fault...”

            “Of course it’s not your fault.  He’s an alcoholic—that’s what alcoholics do.  They drink.”

            “He’d been sober for 14 years!”

            “Well, you didn’t buy him the booze, did you?  He could have gone to an AA meeting if he was that desperate,” Louise returned.  “It sucks, and I really like him and wish him well, but he’s being a moron.  I mean, it’s not like this will get you back, or change what’s happened.”

            “What he’s been through would be too much for almost anyone,” I protested.  “He felt so guilty about all of it.”

            “Then he needs to find himself a good therapist and snap out of it.  Mom always let Dad get away with his drinking, blaming it on one thing or another, and look what happened.  He never had to change because no one ever held him accountable.”

            When I just shook my head, Louise’s expression softened.  “He’s a smart guy,” she told me.  “He’ll figure it out.  I don’t believe for a minute he’ll still be drinking by this time next year, so stop worrying, okay?  This isn’t your fight anymore.”

When he dropped me I fell 

and it was close, the ground              so close that I could smell the

grass as his fingers loosed

their hold

somehow I forgot to wave goodbye
forgot that without him 

I could not fly