Every now and then I remember the sound of dominoes slamming onto tables.
I can almost hear the sound of men arguing over pitches made in the sports game on TV.
Daddy and his friends.
The clanking of Heineken bottles and swear words thrown through the air and,
The men who remind the others that there is a lady in the room.
A tiny lady.
A hat, tipped in my direction.
I sip a little of Daddy’s beer and promise to keep it a secret.
I didn’t like the taste and I still don’t.
But, every now and then I’ll go out to a party and take shots of vodka, chase them with beer,
And in my drunken stupor I’ll whisper to Daddy:
“Your little girl can really drink.”
Although I dislike its flavor and the rotten taste in my mouth when I awake
I’ll do it every Friday,
To getaway from reality.
Like a ghost,
An out of body experience,
I’ll watch myself drink and drink,
And drink again.
To follow in Daddy’s footsteps,
That I’ll be led to him.
Like dominoes standing in a line,
I tumble and trip.
I kiss boys I don’t know,
Smoke joints I haven’t rolled.
I am punishing him
Yet honouring him:
A sip in his memory,
A shot in his mocking.
Look what I’ve become since you left.
Asphyxia: A feeling I get when I take a cigarette from a stranger’s hand.
How I float when I walk hand in hand with life and death.
– An excerpt from Porridge: A Memoir
A memoir about life after death, and a little girl who nearly lost her life after her father lost his.