GRIEF AND WHISKEY
- Mar 7
- 1 min read
By S.D Gould
I was hungover the day of your funeral.
And so many after that.
Grief came in bottles,
and left in apologies I never sent.
They said the service was beautiful—
I don’t remember the lilies or the suits,
the priest reciting a name
that no longer sounded like yours.
I’m sure I mouthed along,
tasting the syllables like ash.
When they lowered you down,
the world didn’t break.
That offended me.
The sun was obscene in its persistence.
The sky had the audacity to stay blue.
Someone laughed at the wrong time—
and I hated them
for surviving correctly.
I tried to write a eulogy
that didn’t sound like a confession.
Tried to say I miss you
without meaning I failed you.
But everything came out slurred,
and nothing felt true.
That night I raised another glass
to the shape you left behind.
Poured whiskey into absence
and called it remembrance.
Even now, I can’t tell the difference
between mourning and maintenance.
Some nights I still toast you
out of habit,
like a superstition that kept me human.
Maybe I drink so I don’t remember the silence.
Maybe I drink because it remembers me.
You’re still the only ghost
I’ve ever let follow me home.
And I’m still the only sinner
who thinks that’s a kind of love.