A bottle passes hands
like a story told too often—
slurred,
half-true,
unfinished.

In one generation,
it begins as celebration—
a drink to mark the harvest,
a sip after long days.

In the next,
it becomes ritual.
Not joy,
but habit—
clockwork at dusk.

By the third,
it’s survival.
Not a choice,
but a rhythm—
the only quiet left
in a loud and empty room.

Names change.
Faces age.
But the sound
of the cap twisting off
echoes the same.

It is never just one life.
It is lineage.
A slow drip
through the veins
of a family tree
that grows crooked
in the shadow
of the glass.