chugging

on three little drinks,
the usual sort of evening

we're crowded around the table
for dinner, then a damned fun game -
and then the Dateline of the weekend -

I'm just struck by
my father's noises
my mother's tone

and my brother gone -

my urge to go cop some of his weed,
and my growing resolve to just,
instead,
read myself to sleep -
the spirit pulling harder
from within,
saving me.

I try to chug the present
and mostly succeed,
but I can't help but notice
my big ol chisel of a mind
etching these nights into memory. I mean.
How could I ever forget my father's voice,
my mother's delightfully astute word choice?

I just know
I won't.
and so,
into sepia -
with another lazy drink -
while I can still be lazy -

I feel frozen in the photo album
right now.