on fighting the call of the bottle

quartet love

The call is in my blood.  The fight is not.

Too many, maybe all, have succumbed to the call and nary I saw a war wavered.  The call. It haunts me.

It is the dread of being forty-eight years old if your father passed away at forty-nine. You prepare and stand guard. Hopeful yet haunted.

I awaken at the three am hour daily, my stomach feeling as if I am coming out of plank position.  Preparing.  For something.  A nervousness felt before heading on stage to face a crowd.  A stance prepared before heading into battle.

I turn on my lamp.  There is no crowd. A bamboo plants stares at me.  She whispers, “Be always ready”.

I stare at my bare walls. Minimalized.  There is no thing to distract me or lead me to believe this is home, except the dream catcher above my bed.  There is a home in…

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