Held by the Hollow

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Back when my mom gave up the fight,

My world collapsed without a sound.

The days grew darker than the night,

And grief was all that wrapped around.

A counsellor, a puppy, tears

I grasped at straws, I drank too deep.

I tried to dull the rising fears

That haunted even restless sleep.

Was I an addict? I don’t know.

But looking back, the signs were there—

A hollow self with eyes aglow

From numbing what I could not bear.

I faced it mostly on my own,

And sometimes I forgive that part.

But photos show how much I’d grown

Detached from life, from light, from heart.

It’s sad how low I had to sink

To think that drink could pull me through.

Yet in those years, on edge, on brink,

Some warmth and friendship carried too.

With Denis, brother not by blood,

We drank and laughed through pain unfaced.

A bond that, through the silent flood,

Held firm despite the time we chased.

Now I am sober—most the time.

A drink or two, no more than that.

But even that small climb

Still hits me hard and leaves me flat.

The morning after always tells

A headache, sleep that fails to mend.

My Garmin charts the quiet spells

Where healing fights what I pretend.

I’ve learned that booze won’t bring me back

Or lift the weight I couldn’t name.

It leaves a trail, a thinning track,

And never once erased the blame.

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