One day, you’ll pour a whiskey, and you won’t realize it’s your last.
There will be no warning. No spotlight from God. Just another Tuesday night, another dirty glass, another habit. You’ll sit down, like you always do.
But because a part of you, the part that’s been kicked around, knows that time is always a thief in the night, you don’t drink to forget. That’s a sucker’s game. You drink to remember.
And so you sit there. The day doesn’t have to be loud to matter. You think about the years. The faces of the women you lost and the few you were lucky enough to find. You let the ghosts have a seat at the table. Maybe you let out a little laugh, a dry, rattling sound at the whole goddamn joke of it all.
And then you finish your drink.
Just like you always do.
You put the glass down.
Get up.
And walk off into the other room.
No big send-off. No final, profound thought.
Because you don’t know that this was your last.
Because that’s the way life works. You’re not told this is your last whiskey. Are you sure? Hope You treated it Like it could be.
Cheers! One day.
