Poem #150 of 365

Daddy, I can't remember having
a beer with you, once you were
blind and I was finally legal.

Did we forget that we could bond
in celebration as easily as we did
in pain and suffering?

Daddy, I would have gladly paid
for the beers and opened them
up, letting the caps clatter so
you could count up the bottles.

I cannot remember ever laughing
and tipsy, sharing a joke or
whistling bad songs, once the
tumor had taken its toll.

But I do recall as a kid,
sitting in the baby blue Impala
on a Friday night, waiting for
mama to finish in the store.

She was smart to not let you drive,
because you had had way too much
of those beers after work. And she
was buying groceries as you sat
shotgun in the car, hiccuping and
hiccuping without much of a pause.

We thought it was so funny, me and
Miranda, when you numbered
your hiccups out loud, and the whole Impala
was a big counting shout with giggles
and our heads tossed about.

But mama was not thrilled
by your hiccup performance,
she clamped us shut
all quiet for the drive home.

And you tried to stifle your hiccups
but every one or so out of five
exceeded the limit on volume
she'd newly-imposed, and we'd giggle
under cupped little girl hands.

These days there is one bottle
I buy yearly for you, my painstaking
hunt some times yields just one
quart. A Schlitz just for you,
just like you once liked, I place it
atop the day of the dead altar
I build in October. The one you
really liked. The beer that made
my daddy famous.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez