August Afternoon

In the house, alone, all day with my dog dying of liver and kidney failure, I think about quitting drinking. Twice I've gone to the pantry and looked at the red line of wine, crouching at the bottom of the large green bottle like a resting ballerina folded onto her legs. I can't decide which goodbye is harder. There will be no more dog walks, no more drinks at sunset. My life, already in trouble at 20, advances through its new 53rd year by a fresh batch of relinquishments, by the loss of things that just a short time ago I seemed left with. I have run out of excitement about myself. I will not be remembered or grieved, like this dog. And I will be cold sober each day, saying my goodbye to the sun.