I drank vodka with my father, and I cooked steaks with my father, and I drank wine with my father, and when I was suitably drunk with these things, I made my way to the room that I used to often make my way to. The sheets are the same, but the bed is not, however the furniture of the room is the same. I look at those same relics in the closet, old clothes I decided not to bring with me wherever I go but those don’t matter. I make a move towards that cupboard of a night stand and I see that empties that we once imbibed. I am drunk on liquor and wine and nostalgia.

In that cupboard I see the empty bottles of Irish whiskey. We would drink it with tea, iced tea of all the things. Eventually we would let the ice melt and the tea disappear and we would drink it straight and warm, before cuddling in the bluish light that only a fresh residential fluorescent bulb would produce. I have learned that only the residential bulbs produce this color. I am a lighting engineer now and back then I sold flooring, went to dubstep shows, and happily made love.

Next to the green-tinged whiskey bottle is the clear bottle of Vodka. I remember the brand. We mixed it with cranberry juice and when we got sleepy, red bull, as we sat in the back of the old car and watched movies at the drive in. I can’t remember if it was hot or cold, but we kept a blanket in the back for comfort or security or privacy, but it didn’t matter because not a whole lot mattered back then and maybe it’s the booze right now but I feel tears forming. God damnit.

And laying against these bottles is the ultimate prize, the symbol of it all. I remember  the day my sister gave it to me, she specifically said not to use it for no good, however it is a device devised for the deviants and the no do gooders. I am neither of these, so maybe I somehow balanced this equation out. The surface is scratched and lacks a true luster. When I found it, it contained something clear and alcoholic and unrecognizable. I was younger then. Maybe I would recognize it now. I do remember it making my nose tingle.

I remember how well it would fit in my pocket. We would go to parties, before 21, knowing that eventually, when the booze ran out, we would always have our trump card, our secret to keep our buzz or drunk alive, always filled with the spoils of your sister. I thought I had lost it. But what was once lost, now is found.

And now I am drunk and I decided to call you. I hear your voice for the first time in a year. I am smiling a useless and unimportant smile the entire time. Why have I done this, I will never know. The conversation is finished, swiftly and cordially.

I feel like an idiot upon its termination.

The inspiration comes quick, so I write quick. Good night everyone. Enjoy the honesty.