He got her the nicest headstone he could afford- anything for his girl. He would tell her about mother, about how his hands shook without her. How if he don’t drink they would shake even worse. She would have never wanted to see him this way, and he felt ashamed each time he brought it up. One day, he just stopped going. He couldn’t stand himself any longer.

You sit, and you stir. You grieve and you grieve. The same chair as your old man, your mother’s worse than you think. Sunken eyes and a withering frame, the needle quiets the longing. That poison it fills her veins. So quiet when the [bad word]  Your mother’s rosary ain’t bringing father home. [bad word] with cigarette burns. There ain’t no [bad word] to save her. So quiet as the clouds roll. Your mother’s rosary wrapped on the bed post. [bad word] with cigarette burns. Sit on that dock every night until your head hurts. You sit, and you stir. You grieve and you grieve. The longer you sit at the ocean you lose more time than you think. Your [bad word] cold, wind biting under your coat. Pull it tight to your chest. Your mother is praying for death much more than you know. “You coward, this is your fault. Our family has lost everything.” Look down at your hands and your lit cigarette. Put it to your lips and breathe it in. Everything starts to fade and your body is numb. And when you wake in the morning you’re in the house all alone.