The headache can be pinpointed to the back
Of my mind-a memory that slowly resurfaces.
Clutching a small doll, walking like a monkey
Towards my mother, all smiles. Then I say, “Up!”
And she picks me up and takes me over to the couch,
Where I flop down and watch cartoons as my parents
Talk over morning coffee. It is Saturday, and the bright
Sunshine pours into the small house-small, compared
To some, but large enough for me, because I didn’t
Understand money then. No one told me what it was.
As I wait for my breakfast to be made, I watch cartoons,
Trying to find some sense in Wile E.
Coyote and the Road Runner-dumb names, I thought.
They should make up more interesting characters.
That was when I started making up stories to myself,
Then, as I grew older, I would write them down on paper,
And sell them for a nickel to my Grandma, who was
Always there for me, until she grew too old to take
Care of herself. I remember the cookies she used to send
Us as care packages all the way from Florida,
Especially chocolate chip, which was my favorite. The headache
Is pounding at my brain and I take some aspirin, trying
To keep myself from going into the alcohol cupboard for
A bottle of gin.
“Does alcohol age?” I ask myself, and I search for the answer