Brandy Lien Worrall-Soriano

A shot of liquor (currently, tequila) in an aquamarine blue shot glass I got in Japan,
every morning emptied and then refilled by Dad’s urn on my altar.
I smear sleep out of the corners of my eyes,
put my blurry focus on Dad’s photograph
say “Cheers, Dad,” throwing back the shot
he enjoyed yesterday.
I know he drank it because the tequila
tastes like flat dirty water by the time I down it,
less flammable than water coming from taps
in houses where they frack, sacrificing one sustainable energy source
for another, but safely, you know? Right, Dad,
it is a bunch of bullshit, isn’t it?
Let’s take another shot for that.

Dad and I share more stories and conversations now that he’s dead.
There was so much he forgot to say or kept to himself before. Some things
I wish I didn’t know, but I do now that I’ve inherited (took) his journals,
his once-private thoughts.
But, Dad, secrets never stay that way. People
always deny that inevitability,
the absolute showiness of that thing you want no one
to ever find out about,
the heft and oomph of silenced shame.
Yeah, another bunch of bullshit.
Another shot.

Is your secret safe with me, you ask.
Depends on how you define “safe.”
I will think about it, live with it, dream about it,
cry about it, tell my confidantes and possibly probably my therapist about it,
probably possibly write about it.
Some release, some nurturing,
whether or not you think that’s safe.
No one’s ever safe from secrets though;
best intentions are such foul tricksters.

Cheers, Dad. The more shots you and I take,
the faster these secrets will go away
to become something new,
our solemn Sunday salvation
where we can sit in honest silence.