I wondered if the doors in your house lock by themselves because they know you’ll be too drunk to do it later. Maybe they know you like to keep your secrets locked away behind closed doors, so you don't have to admit to them; As it is easier to explain the absent of truth when there are lies to fill in the gaps.

From a young age I learnt to appreciate silence, as your nights brought a storm of yells and screams as my mother fought with words but you fought with a bottle and a wine glass. I wonder if the man at the bottle shop knew your order before you even walked through the doors, as you became quite the regular.

I wonder if my mother went to bed and cried the night she found bottles stashed away in the attic where nobody was suppose to find them; But almost six years after you left,  there they were. Maybe closed doors weren’t enough to keep your secrets locked away so you had to hide them in the attic, among family photos and old rusted bed frames.

I wonder if the sound of slamming doors still haunt my sisters ears. For they heard you leave in drunken anger, in the dead of night, to who-knows where.

I wonder if you ever thought of coming back; But I guess alcohol acted as a better family then we ever did because at least bottles don’t think, or have feelings and broken hearts.

I wonder if you’ll ever get the smell of alcohol out of your hair or from under your skin, and I wonder if you will ever keep the promises you once made me; But I guess my calls for help were nothing more than the soundtrack of a late night television show, left on as you fell asleep on the couch; red wine staining the carpet, leaving a tattooted mark as a reminder, telling those that you’d been here.

I wonder what it felt like when you realised, as children, we once replaced you beer with milky-water because we didn’t want daddy drinking anymore; Or what about the time when we threw out your tobacco. I  remember you sent us to our rooms, and shut the door behide you.

I wonder if you remember the time we went fishing and I asked you about the ocean. You explained that the ocean was like a human mind; so beautiful and clear,  yet deep and mysterious and that if I was to learn one thing in life, it was to never judge a person at first glance because just like the surface of the ocean, they only reflect the world around them. So I never judged you. I tried to understand you, but how was I  suppose to understand you when you kept closing doors in my face and threatening me with padlocks and lost keys?

I grew up learning to place my ears against the doors of your mind and try to arrange the puzzle pieces of your thoughts in an attempt to somehow create an image; But all I got was an unfinished picture with missing pieces.

I wonder if you remember the day I stopped visiting you because it was too hard packing my feelings into a suitcase and lugging them back and forth. I often wonder if you hated it that I didn’t call your house "home" or spent most of my time there, alone, outside because I didn’t like closed doors.

I remember once I  asked you why you drank so much. You said you liked the taste. I guess you also liked the heart break that comes with it, and the loneliness.

I wonder if you remember the night you got so blinded drunk you fell alseep on your bed with your pride by your side, waiting for my memory to pick it up and throw it out the window. I wonder if you remember I turned off the radio and let the silence tuck you in and the darkness sing you lullabies. I wonder if you remember I quietly closed the door behind me as I left;
Leaving another locked door;
With a deadly secret inside.