Though pills haven't been as big a part of my life (or a stumbling block) as booze and weed, I find myself writing about them more. Maybe it's how relatively secret one can be about a pill habit that makes it more fascinating for the writer in me—how the problem can be hidden in plain sight. 

I have no real memory of the incident described in the poem below. It may very well be that a man came to visit my father after his "incident" and before his death to make sure that he took his meds. It's just as likely that I made it up completely. Either way, it has become a part of my memory of the man, of growing up with the man. Part of what shaped my relationship with pills, even if it never happened.