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A man swished his liquor, crouching on a crossroad at one a.m.
He yelled, "My blood burns, my mind burns, my throat burns."
My eyes on the bottle, then my eyes on his, my cane tapped on the asphalt three times.
He asked whether I had tasted grief. I stayed silent and he hissed.

"I don't have the privilege to be carried to the heavens and have my heart washed by God."
I asked, "That rum will wash it down instead?"

A brief moment that he paused, he swished his liquor again. "Oftentimes."

I asked, "When the grief hits, is it sometimes?"
"Most of the time."

I asked, "Can your body take the rum?"
"Not with time."

I said, "But you speak with such clarity."
"Only at this time."

I tapped the cane three times, crouched beside him, and asked, "Is grief meant to be forgotten in time?"
He paused and shook his head. "I just don't want its pain."

"Living is pain. You were born from your mother's pain. Grief comes in package and keeps you sane."

Anger reddened him. "Are you insane?"

My fingertips brushed his cheek and he backed away from shock. His eyes went large from fear, and I said, "Guess again."

My cane tapped the asphalt one more time and before I left, I warned, "Be careful or you will call me once more. But if you want to, drink another or maybe four.

"And I'll take your pain away, once and for all."