Not consciously. Mostly it came in poetry.
My father and his brother were both addicts. Uncle Eddie drank. I remember his pay phone calls at strange hours. My father didn’t drink. He was a heroin user who I now believe moved from New York out to Oregon so he could quit cold turkey and escape the drug’s allure.
When I was a child, my mother worked on Saturdays. My father and I would drive from our home in Oregon City into downtown Portland for what I thought was bookstore shopping. Turns out the methadone clinic (in the same building as Mary’s Club) was our real destination. At five years old, maybe six, all I did was look out the window, believing what we were doing.
I wrote the poem “Methadone” about those curious memories. Not necessarily the realization that my father was a drug user though. I wrote about being along for the ride.
It took nearly three months to send those poems out. On Saturday, I received word that Grasslimb wanted to publish the work. I was with my son in a record store.
I am looking forward to it’s featured release coming soon.