An old friend will come along and squeeze your shoulders, saying a few words you can’t quite make out; you’ll think you heard “just our luck,” but you’ll still nod and smile at them before they grab their drink and slip back into the room. Then the old bartender will tell you that before you came along, your father used to sit right where you’re sitting, all hump-shouldered and head down like a whipped horse. His head was down because your momma was a waitress and as beautiful as they come. But her real beauty, he’ll tell you, was how she would move about the room in a kind of slow waltz while serving the drinks and making small talk with everyone. She would do the darndest thing that I just loved, the old bartender will tell you—just as she made it back to the bar, she would do this little leap over it to the other side like she was skipping over a creek only she could see. He’ll tell you that your father had to drink doubles before he could even think of looking up at her, but once he finally did, my God, how her eyes could hold him right there all night.

      He’ll fill your glass again then look you straight in the eyes and ask you, darling, can you imagine if your daddy had never looked up?

      And then you’ll suddenly forget earlier that morning when you spent hours retching over the toilet, your body burning up, a sickness working its way through your organs like wild reeds spreading at the water’s edge. You’ll forget how it was only after finding the bottle of pills you swore off and the red pack of cigarettes you hadn’t smoked in years that you were able to find the strength to cover what seemed like an impossible distance from the back door to your truck sitting outside. You’ll forget how broken you felt having to crawl along the rocky path and how cold the stones felt on your hands and knees as you suffered your way through a layer of wet spring snow. You’ll forget how the clouds suddenly cracked open, the sunlight striking down on your back, the warmth turning the snow to slush. You’ll forget the anger that filled inside of you, how it raised you cruelly to your feet, casting you away from the truck and down the riverbank to the wooden boat. You’ll forget how you found a half-empty gas can beside the trash barrel and how you dropped the bottle of pills and the lit cigarette from your mouth inside, tossing it into the bow of the wooden boat, a boat you’ve come to despise for its demand of perfect balance, something you lost a while ago. You’ll forget how the flames followed the curve of the hull and rose into a curling peak of fire. You’ll forget kicking the burning boat into the current and turning your back to the rising flames as it drifted down river along the seams between the ice. You’ll forget how you managed to get back to the truck and how you finally got the engine to turn over and start and how you told yourself to drive for as long as you could no matter what. You’ll forget how in your rear-view mirror you watched the sky turn from stark white, to deep blue, to crimson.  

      What you’ll remember is the pale colors of your mother’s dress flashing in the stark light as she glides and turns across the bar only to stop and kiss your head as you make your way to the jukebox with those quarters squeezed tightly in your little hand.

      In remembering this, you’ll feel a kind of joy radiate through you that you’ve not known before.

      So, you’ll ask for another and the old bartender will fill your glass, and all your old friends will gather around you again like a choir. Everyone will extend their glasses out for a toast, and you’ll touch your glass to theirs and it will feel like a celebration. You’ll think this is all you need to live for now.

      And as you take the last sip of your drink, you’ll think about that wooden boat and wonder where it might have drifted off to.

You’ll imagine the pyre of flame towering into the sky and somewhere high above it will be your voice, soaring.