Happy Hour with Noah

Noah’s story is so much darker than we give it credit for. If anybody has cause for trying to forget their life, it is Noah. Imagine watching God wipe out your world but keep you alive. Of course he ends up passed out naked in a field.

(Genesis 9)

He swears the first drink was quality control.

To make sure the new water-logged vines

held some of the old dry world flavor

enough to loosen his too-tight bones

He sips slowly

walks slower.

There is a fresh sweetness,

a flavor with no name

 yet.

He supposes that’s his job now too.

He pours the next drink and the one after that

to remember

a different old love with every sip,

the feel of soil he knew with young feet,

the smell of trees he turned into walls.

He wonders

how the same wood that once made his home

carried him so far away.

He looks down to see he’s already poured another.

He closes his eyes,

hears the Voice,

wondering if its new or an echo of life before,

calling out measurements and promises.

The phantom sound rings in his ears first, then guts.

Both an invite and a sentence

to live in a world where death floods life

though the Voice claims it’s the other way around.

The only thing he knows for sure

is the cup. It’s in his hand. And it’s empty.

One more, he calculates,

just enough to wipe away this strange new world

like the rain cleared out the one before.

He tries to recall their names,

those he knew by face and story,

the landscape of the first lost life.

Even the wicked can become the familiar.

By grace or drink,

they are a blur to him now.

He raises this glass to them still.

“To trial and error,” he slurs.

He feels the chill of the next drink

soaking his lips

throat

heart

wherever his soul is.

He decides to test his legs.

He stands and stumbles,

and considers himself.

“Why rescue this?”

The question no drink can drown.

“To the morning,” he whispers,

not sure he wants the Voice to ever answer back.