He loved the pause, the still and rest—moments of simply being when neither time nor life required fill but were allowed and experienced in attunement of presence and moment-happening.
They rested then at evening shade, in contemplation with falling sun—eye-to-eye if one viewed sun and light such way—when, if ever such was true, God and Universe communed in lowering of level in meet with seeing spirit.
It was a Heaven-light, ethereal and ephemeral, as filtered rays moved in scatter through fall of autumn-yellow trees.
It was an anniversary of a kind—eight years since his last drink and drunk. Not a point of pride, it was but reference moment in a life marking change and amend of course.
*****
He was never an alcoholic. That was the wrong word. He never needed ad rink to get through a day or reach a state of tolerance when he could live, numbed and detached, with his own despair. There was never a dependency that way.
One drink—he could never stop. He was a Drunk. First feel of high and deceit-elation, he would kill himself before not having another. Morning wakes, race of heart and full-body rest, fight-effort to rid the poison—God knew how many times he almost did.
It began as fun, way for a quiet and reticent heart to free itself amongst others and crowds when it would have otherwise kept hidden. This was the joy. This was the rush. This was the fun until “one day” became “often” that progressed into “most times”—it wasn’t.
Alcohol expresses, or enhances, the inner nature of imbibing spirit and somewhere in the living and being—joy became bitterness. Spirit and drunks were changed.
He dreaded to drink—and did it still—knowing there would be argument and resentment at the end. Even when controlled and staying good, conditioned to the habit and pattern, foreknowing still lived.
After, he remorse. He felt the weight and also emptiness of guilt and dwelled self-hate that is pity without fight or movement to resolve.
He spoke to those he loved, his belief he needed to quit. Always, he was countered by well-meaning that wasn’t, “You don’t need to quit. You just need to learn to control it.”
Again he would try, good for a time, until he wasn’t. He never learned.
One last time, one last fight—against the well-meant words that weren’t of those who loved him—he resolved never again.
Without change, even living, he knew he would lose his life and all he loved. There were no more last chances.
He went to an AA meeting in a different town. He sat quiet, not a word beyond smile and introduction of name at beginning when others gathered. He listened as all went around the room, each telling their own story.
He was last.
He started passive, meek of his soul-state until find and attain of courage and truth.
He spoke his ugliness. He spoke his hurt—given and received. He spoke his shame. He spoke his fear. He broke down—completely.
He was nothing.
As nothing, by strangers, he was consoled. He was forgiven—clemency and compassion.
Hope.
He was not alone though the devil made it seem.
*****
He thought of it all again, eye-to-eye with seeing sun from rest in evening shade.
*****
He remembered, too, that final night: bitterness of the last.
He remembered the fire, the home and way it was and wondered if life and Universe don’t sometimes project, in manifest and moment, the true-live nature of one’s soul in surreal experience of a happening.
It was a hell: his anger, his resentment, his hurt; high reach of flames from bonfire pyre and his effort at escape and retreat into refuge of home only to find blurred horrors projected in play to every wall; beginning dizzy and full-set of stupor, body’s continue as spirit and mind departed, dying and taken into black.
Her’s was the last face she saw, one distinction in a blur and spin of broken horror-visions; her notice of him, search-read of face before mind and soul’s full departing; a benign spirit, compassionate and seeing—Beatrice through dream-state guide—amidst descent into his hell.
*****
Memory lasted longer than he knew, and when returned from his history, sky was night.
It was a different darkness than night eight years ago. There were stars, and there was peace.
On far side of time and hell, she was there. Hope-point stars lit out into the infinite and vast. Evening shade no longer shadowed, it was heaven with her then.