I never killed my father. Why finish a job that someone is completing all on his own. It’s not that I didn’t wish him dead; I did and do for that matter. Don’t misunderstand me, I wish him no harm, it’s just that he is like a creature so tortured that he is nothing but a danger and a misery. Left to live he is a hazard to everyone he has contact with, an agony to live inside. What can I wish for him, but departure and rest, something he can never give to himself. I don’t plot, don’t scheme, I only know; know in part, the terrible lie he lives and hurt he drags from place to place acting like it is not there and nothing matters; let’s just get by. So, if he is not dead he should be. He is the embodiment of the hurtful impotent god and I don’t kill that man but I kill the image, perish that thought.
Provide for the future of your sanity
I look at the line on my heel
Where I must stay vigilant with pumice and the moisturizer
My toes clean and straight but nothing more.
I see my feet as passable, it’s hard to see them as beautiful,
Well cared for is the best I can do
But there is a beauty in that.
I think of myself,
I am an alcoholic
There is nothing beautiful about alcoholism either.
The care I take in tending my sobriety
The nurturing I see others use in their own lives
There is a certain loveliness to it.
Crusted over hearts
Scraped and oiled
Fit and ready to beat anew.
Polluted minds, drained and reformed
To turn lives upright
Step work and making meetings
Is just a functionary thing
But gorgeous in its own way
Efficacy is a pearl not to be disregarded.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault