When you showed up drunk as hell, hummingtunelessly to yourself, and slumped againstthe auditorium's faux-wood paneling  — whenyou fumbled in the pockets of your coat,fished out a cigarette, brought it to your lips,then, realizing for the first time where you were,tossed it away and said Fuck it loud enoughthat everyone turned in their seats and a friendelbowed me and asked if I knew you — I shookmy head and spent the next hour wondering whyI was so glad you came. You, who slepteach night in your battered van, who skippedmeetings and lied to your sponsor, who stillcalled your ex-wife every day, restraining orderbe damned. You shouldn't have been thereeither: a hundred yards was the agreementafter you gathered all the meds in the houseinto a shoebox and threatened to take them.You had come regardless. You were there.And I was there. And when I walked the stageyou hollered my name with a kindof wild conviction, then said it a second time,less convinced, and I thought of that nightwhen the cops came and you, unashamedof the fuss you caused, of your desperate,public struggle for happiness, kissed meon the head — once, twice — and went quietly.