whiskey sour

your father
liked to drink.
brown whiskey for the most
part.
tumblers of whiskey
sours, manhattans,
scotch on the rocks,
that sort of thing.
he worked part time as
a bartender, which didn't
help matters
for his wife and seven
children.
you could smell the sour
breeze of cigarettes
and booze on his
stiff bearded cheeks.
the whiskey making him
either happy
or angry, depending on
which way
the wind blew
in his life that day.
but now, so many years
of being dry
later.
you see something else
in him.
regret, perhaps, remorse,
even compassion, a rare
event. but
forgiveness is a difficult
thing in life.
forgiving oneself
being the hardest.