Back in the day when they allowed smoking at AA,
the nicotine haze hung in the air and clung
to my skin and hair for days,
like the memory of no memory
from too many chardonnays
that hung heavy on my newly cleared brain.
Back in the day, when I could drink any man
under the table and then dance naked on top of it,
coming to a week later with no recollection
of what had gone down, who knew that someday,
I would come to know myself again in crowded,
blue smoke clouded church basements all over town?
When a new state ordinance outlawed cigarettes
in the meeting halls, all of us drunks,
trying to live without a drink a day at a time,
didn’t think we could make it through an hour-long
meeting without a butt, but we stayed anyway,
drumming our yellowed fingers on the table tops,
gripping our coffee cups and listening for our lives.
We assembled again and again, again hearing
Jimmy K. tell about killing that girl with his old Chevrolet
and Maureen B. trying to reclaim her kids from the system
she had lost them to on her last big bender, and I knew
it could’ve been me, leaving my babies asleep in the car
while I ducked in for a quick one with the guys at Jack’s,
or drifting over the yellow line and not coming back.
Back in those days I was sucking wind like all of them,
running a race against the bottle I could never win
without crashing and burning everything in sight.
Those were the days before I gave up
the fight and surrendered, hauled the wreckage
of my past into God’s smoky cellars,
and finally learned how to breathe again.
~ Penny Field