Worth A Thousand Tears

The picture in the paper haunted me. It was over a year after my brother died. A staff photographer had taken a photo of a young man passed out at the park with bottles of liquor in the sink next to him. It looked so much like Paul I was brought back to all those tears I cried the 5 years he was living out there on the streets. In 1982 our father died and Paul started drinking. My mother asked him one day when he was going to quit. “When my father wakes up,” slurred the drunken reply. Paul never quit drinking.



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