Growing up, my father always had his menagerie of pills. They sat in rows on the bathroom counter, with color-coded tops and labels, lots of words I didn't understand at the time. Heart disease. Depression. Impotence.
When my mom left us, I didn't know why. But it was those pills. She couldn't take them, and he had to.
I did my best to take care of him. I don't know if those pills helped or hurt him, helped or hurt me, but they were always there with us, like pets, or friends. Up until the very last day, we had a whole assortment, and he took each one like candy.
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