Whiskey Lullaby
Broke his heart, he spent his whole life tryin' to forget
We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time
But he never could get drunk enough to get him off his mind
Months passed, as I watched my baby suffer. He never got out of bed unless he needed another bottle of Jack. I know it made him feel better when the world blurred and he didn’t feel the pain any more. But I still remember when he laughed and smiled, cried even. But now he won’t even cry. His eyes are dead, his face lifeless. He stares up at the ceiling, a bottle of Jack in his hand and whiskey on his breath.
He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger
And finally drank away his memory
He whispered, “I’m sorry…” in his dark room, as he took his last swallow and his last breath in the same second.
I can’t say I was really shocked that day when we found him with his face down in the pillow
With a note that said, 'I'll love him till I die.'
As a mother, I felt guilty that I let that boy tear my baby apart. But I thought he’d just get over it. Not a big deal, you know? He was a big boy; he could get over heartbreak.
And when we buried him beneath the willow
The angels sang a whiskey lullaby
He was buried under his favorite tree, quiet and alone, even after death. It wasn’t like he left us then. He had left us two years ago before he spiraled into a deep, alcoholic depression.
He was gone, and if not in peace, in solitude. The good Lord will let him into heaven. My son did nothing wrong. He lived a good life, until he was beyond help.
I no longer felt uneasy about him. I knew he was okay now.
The rumors flew but nobody knew how much he blamed himself
The classifieds dropped from his shuddering fingers.
“What happened?”
“H-he’s dead. He killed himself yesterday.”
I instantly know who he means. I drop the piece of toast, scurrying to the other side of our table. I hug him, and I feel his tears against my shirt.
“I just can’t believe he would ever do that. He was just so happy…”
“Look, son. That was two years ago. He must’ve changed.” I hold his shoulders, looking into his watery eyes.
He tried to hide the whiskey on his breath
He finally drank his pain away a little at a time
But he never could get drunk enough to get him off his mind
He couldn’t hide the reek of booze, how he stunk of it. He stopped coming out of his room, except to drink. All he did was drink. His eyes died. The life flowed out. He was gone.
He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger
And finally drank away his memory
He put the silencer on the gun, as he took his last swallow and his last breath.
Found him with his face down in the pillow
Clinging to his picture for dear life
I can’t say I was surprised to quietly push the door open to find his hospital-white sheets stained with a spray of blood, and an empty bottle of Jack broken on the floor.
I cross the room to his bed, in his fingers, a picture of him, and a cold drop of blood covering his face. A slip of white paper tucked into the frame. I pull it out with trembling hands, and read it.
He lay next to him beneath the willow
Under the drooping tree, I lay my son.
“I’m so sorry, baby. It’s okay now. Nothing can hurt you anymore.”
‘It’s okay, mama. I’m happy now. He’s here with me.’
“I know you’re okay, sweetheart. I just never thought I’d outlive you.”
‘I’m still alive, just not, you know, physically. Keep me in your heart. I love you, Mom. Take care.’
I look up, seeing a faint refraction of the light, a gold shadow under the green vines.
Two figures, one taller, slightly less visible. One was shorter and more solid. Their hands were tightly entwined, as they walked away into something I couldn’t see
While the angels sang them a whiskey lullaby.
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