Before I was born my grandmother had a child.  It was stillborn.  My grandfather had taken the other children to church.  My grandmother panicked and tossed the dead mess into the fire.  That’s as exciting as this gets, because now it’s about me, so you can stop reading but it’s alright if you don’t.  What it is, or what I’d like to say, is that I’m trying,  but I drink, and because of drink what I say or write has these ‘accessories’ that remind me of like rosary beads on a bedpost; that hang on to what you feel and do and say, and it makes some things that mean things not mean things, and then some things that really don’t mean things mean things and I’m left making these excuses right from the off but I’m trying because it’s the least I should do but you should know that when I say how it is, it’s how it seems right then, but later on there I am swearing on my own unborn child’s life with lies and tossing the truth into the fire just like my grandmother did with her own bloody unfortunate bairn.


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