How young was my father
when the kiss
of whiskey sealed
an intimacy enduring
the nuisance of Prohibition
and on into long years
of comfort
touching his lips.
Sacred words -
McClelland’s, Glenlivet,
Laphroaig.
Glasses of delight -
shot, high ball,
the ordinary tumbler.
Had he reached toward
his old friend
early in the afternoon,
hours before he died,
suddenly
ending that companionship
of long years?
Standing in the Nova Scotia
Liquor Commission,
I chose the only bottle of hand-blended malt
I ever bought.
His friends drank it all.
Published in Ibbetson Street Press