I never drink unless I’m alone or with somebody. That may’ve been my grandfather’s favorite joke. He’d say it all the time to somebody — when they were pouring him a beer — or when he thought he was alone and was pouring his own. He’d start at noon. Nurse a bottomless can until he drifted off to sleep after Jeopardy. Never drunk but always drinking. You know the kind.
Didn't make him mean, though. Made him soft. He’d laugh out loud at things I didn’t understand. He’d talk about things I didn’t understand.
He’d tell me he loved me. Apologize. Give me advice about what it meant to be young and what I should do…and not do.
I don’t think he really knew if he was alone or with somebody. Or…
I think he was always both.
He had ghosts. Ones he’d made for himself from things he didn’t do. And things he did do that he couldn’t take back. All the time he’d lost and how little was left.
And he’d go about his day — paying bills, running errands, fixing things, breaking things — just like everyone else. Quietly coping from noon til night with loss and hope. Just like everyone else.