Memories of New Years Eve, 2002

Memories of New Years Eve, 2002


You left too early, and I used to blame you
for that, but tonight I think I understand.
People keep passing by, laughing and stumbling,
smiling so widely. I know I must be wearing
the same expression. I made a decision,
earlier today, and I took your ring off—it didn’t feel
so much like defiance then, or perhaps I thought that
without your ring on my finger, you would look away.
It’s only by luck that it fits, Dad.

You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve drank tonight.
I don’t think I can even recall it. My mouth tastes
foreign. I thought perhaps I could
get drunk tonight, New Years Eve, and not
think of you. The alcohol’s not that strong.
The stars are melting in the sky, and I’m not sure
how long it’s been since my last glass.
I’m afraid to fall asleep, not because of the party
or fear of missing all the fun. My fear
is from you.

I remember then, surprisingly. I was so young—
so were you. I hadn’t seen you since Christmas Eve,
the night Mom had given you the divorce papers.
Did I kiss you good-bye? I’d like to think
I did, but that’s lost now; it didn’t seem so important
then. I don’t remember what we did that
New Years Eve celebration, only riding with mom
the evening after, and we passed by your house.
A man dressed in black sat in your front yard,
wiping his brow. I didn’t know him.
Mom pulled over, left me in our rusty blue car, alone.
She didn’t return, or at least not the same
as she left. I couldn’t imagine
that she’d left you, but in retaliation,
you left her, using the very thing that drove us away.
Mom said you couldn’t pick your family
over the booze. It killed you—you died in your sleep.

We killed you? I can see how easy it would have been,
especially now, outside of the boisterous party
and the cold wind on my arms. I am alone.
Is this what you saw that night, Dad?
A clear and empty night, filled only with
the company of the poison in your stomach,
It’s a warm and friendly poison; I never knew that
before. I’ve always thought of alcohol as
a murderer. I know now that it struck slowly,
and you didn’t care that you were leaving
us behind; we had already done the same to you.

I lied tonight, lied to Mom about
what I’d be doing, and I think she trusted me.
Do you remember her trust? How long did it take you
to lose it? I didn’t start drinking as early as you,
but I’ve already got your face, your shade of eyes,
your color of hair—it can’t be difficult
to pick up your addictions, too. Your flaws.
But Dad, I’ve gone so much farther than you—
I’m set to go to college in a year,
I’m graduating high school with honors.
I know calculus, I understand Othello.
I play the piano. I can sing in Latin, German.
Italian for my mom and Slovak for you.
That I’ve come so far when you were
barely literate, Dad, should mean so much,

Except here I am, looking at the same sky,
Indulging in the same poison--
strong enough to kill you, and tonight,
strong enough to bring you back.