half in

my father often smelled
of rye
whiskey
and cigarettes when he arrived
home
after the sun had gone down,
tail between his legs,
his dinner still
on the table, cold.
my mother colder still.
but he was happy
and smiling, quick to lift
us in the air
and spin us towards
the ceiling.
he'd rub his rough beard
against our
faces,
wiggle our noses, our ears.
he was never happier
than those days,
half in the bottle, half
out.
like his marriage, like
his life, never quite settled
down.