Last night, I shut the day down by having a cigar on the back patio. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of my puffy gray hair and thought to myself– Your hair looks crazy– like M’s. M. was a dear friend and mentor-poet. We exchanged poems and artwork– I’d visit him– walk around the university. He sent me books to read– and would recommend other poets , like Tomaz Saluman. Long-necked giraffe toys for my daughters appeared in the mailbox. He was a sweet man, with an active, turbulent, loving and creative mind– and a healthy love for cats. But one night, he broke down and told me a secret and it was bad. Instead of listening and being honest, I coddled him– said some BS , like we all mess up once in a while, M, that wife is giving you a lot of pressure. and he was crying. We hung up, then never spoke again. After all these years, I think I figured out why. At his weakest, he wanted accountability and needed it– but I shrugged off his mistake as if no big deal, that sobriety needs a day off once in a while, just for him to appreciate the clarity it brings after a night of drinking . But that’s wrong thinking– for so many reasons. I should have asked him if he went to a meeting or called his sponsor– and I should have asked what his next steps were. Instead, I acted like a boy . The shame that rushed in when I realized this overwhelmed me until I couldn’t feel it any longer . Now I feel okay and would apologize to him if I ever got the chance. That’s a little progress, but it’s something.