George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He was a good friend, though. I could always count on George.
Whenever I felt tired, or sad, or lonely, George was there.
He’d sit by my bed, telling adventure stories while drinking from his jug of whiskey.
I’d close my eyes and imagine the faraway places George had seen.
All the treasure he’d held, pieces of eight running through his fingers.
Whispering “Good night” he’d turn off the lamp.
Climbing out the window, leaving behind his whiskey jug.
By the time I was twelve, I was in rehab.