When Friday Nights Become Saturday Mornings

When Friday nights become Saturday mornings. The dew glitters on the grass like a fallen chandelier, casting shards of liquid sun. Coals burn in the fire sending smoke crawling towards the sky. Swirling like a tornado growing larger as it consumes an assortment of fuels. If you listen closely you can hear Dorthy reminding you there’s no place like home. An empty case of beer turns to ash in the fire, burning blue and green like the water of a lake. Reminding us that it is finally summer, reminding us that the lake is never too far away. The smells of alcohol and cigar smoke mix in the air. To some they smell of death and addiction, but it reminds me of home. It reminds me of what I know. It reminds me where I have come from. What I have grown from. The men play games of who has the bigger brain, though annoying I suppose it could be worse. The women sip wine and talk about that one tv show with the actor they’ve always liked. This is what home feels like. Yes there are days of destruction, of holes punched through walls and of broken bottles, but I choose to forget that. Yes there are nights of hateful words and screaming at the top of our lungs, but I choose to ignore that. Yes there are mornings of pain and tear filled eyes with suffering etched in our skin, but I choose to sleep through that. This is what I want to remember. Laughter on the tips of our tongues like ageless flavors. The crackling of a fire and the overall feeling of togetherness. Knowing that at least we are together, at least we have each other, forget the violence for a minute, ignore the pain for a moment, see past the disagreements til tomorrow and just live. Take a deep breath, choke a little on all the smells, swallow your pride and live. Life has never been a promise, it doesn’t owe us anything, every moment we spend is a miracle so let yourself live. 

This poem is about: 
My family


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