Someone died last month

He was someone I admired for years, before he gave his life up for liquor. He was very talented - gifted, if you will. He was really good-looking as a teenager. He smoked too much - Kool Filter Kings. He liked sweet coffee, sweet tea, and whiskey and Coke... and buttermilk for a nightcap. His hands shook like a crack addict, but he never did that stuff. He played a beautiful bastardized version of "Malaguena." He loved Lennon and McCartney songs, but he was not romantic. He was a History buff and knew more about my father's military career than I did. In spite of his choice to pickle his brain, he could remember people, places and things from the past like nobody else.
I thought he was a louse. He was abusive and cruel to his wife and children. He couldn't support them and his drinking habit. He was selfish, wanting to sleep all day and play music all night. He didn't have time for anything else. He didn't cut the grass, or buy the groceries or pay the bills. He didn't wash the car - he wouldn't even drive the car because he refused to drink and drive. He lost his upper teeth at the age of 27 - from poor nutrition. His general health began to deteriorate. At 28 he looked like he was 50.
When his wife left, there were more years of traveling with working bands. He spent time in a Mexican jail. He played for Percy Sledge - you know, of "When a Man Loves a Woman" fame. He didn't know how to love a woman. He loved the bottle. Sometimes he would call and say he was sending something - but something never came. Eventually, the phone calls stopped coming too.
Then, one night in 1996, a stranger called. She was looking for his next-of-kin. He was dying in a hospital somewhere on the gulf coast. His daughters were grown women by then. They went to see him anyway. They had questions - but were afraid to ask - afraid he would disappear if they pressed him too hard. He didn't understand because his brain was pickled. The rest of him was barely there. They paid their respects and drove back home, their questions unanswered.
Like a cat with nine lives, he bounced back. He sought treatment and medical attention. He gained weight and took pride in his appearance. He found his sense of humor, and told corny jokes. He occasionally played music. He was sick with cirrhosis; but he could still get around. He liked to look at the pretty women, but he couldn't take too much excitement.
He discovered the internet and established contact with old acquaintances. He had things he wanted to say, but his ego wouldn't allow him to broach the subject. It would come out in other ways - he tried to reconcile; but no one would hear him.
In 2005, Katrina destroyed the Gulf coast. His daughters worried for three days. He lost everything - but he was alive. He got a FEMA trailer, and ate with friends and neighbors. He got a new apartment and some furniture too. He set up his computer fast and established contact with his family. They understood what he'd been through. He acted like a veteran with shell-shock. He never asked for forgiveness for anything, but was in constant contact... ranting wildly about all kinds of things. He hated Republicans and George W. Bush. He thought the Governor should be impeached. He cursed his doctors and their tests; and grew weary from insulin shots. He eventually connected with everyone he'd ever known - the ones that were still alive. But there was an emptiness in his words in the end. No heart-felt remorse for things he had done: presents he forgot to send; promises he forgot to keep. In a strange, sardonic twist, we danced around the subject; and the apologies never came.
Someone died last month; someone old beyond his years. His body was found six days later, where he lied face-down on his bedroom floor. No one had heard his cries for help. He had been alone, or so it first appeared - but the bottle had inched its way back into his hands. Yes, someone died last month and I don't know how to feel. He was the father of my children.