Jun 2014
Twenty-one: they called me in the middle of the night, the hospital smelled stale, like death and frustration and hope. Twenty-one: the woman who was supposed to cry at my wedding is gone, leaving me with only a tox screen that says her blood alcohol was at least four times the legal limit and the wreckage of a car wrapped around a pole. The police officer said there were no skid marks. My world falls out from under my feet... Twenty: we’re not talking. She’s picked him over me once again so we’re taking a break. She left a voicemail about Christmas but I don’t think I’m ready to face her yet. Nineteen: I’m travelling around Europe when my brother calls. She’s in the hospital because her boyfriend pushed her down a flight of stairs. I’m on a the first plane home, terrified that he’s the only one at her bedside. Nineteen: I’m leaving to start my life. Nineteen: she promises me that she’s going to leave him.
Eighteen: she tries to promise she’s better. Seventeen: silence. Sixteen: I move out without telling her. My entire life packed into a single dufflebag. It’s hard to breathe. Fifteen: we go on a vacation to Disney World - she slaps me across the face in the middle of the park. He tells me to stop being such a baby and grow-up. I can feel the ground beneath my feet starting to crumble. Fifteen: I cry myself to sleep to the sound of screaming. Fourteen: a pan flies through the air at my head. He screams at my brother and me as if he’s our father. Thirteen: his kids have stopped talking to him. Mom told us that it’ll be okay. He left angry and drunk last night. Twelve: my mom found out I like a girl tonight. She won’t look at me so, instead, I look in a mirror and wonder what I did wrong. Twelve: everyone says I look just like my Mom. Eleven: Mom started dating a new guy. He’s okay. His cooking is really yummy. Ten: my dad calls to ask if my mom’s still going to her AA meetings. I tell him yes, even though I don’t know what AA stands for and Mom hasn’t left her room in a week except to refill her drink. Ten: Dad and Mom got into a really bad fight. He left in the middle of a thunderstorm. It’s been two weeks, and we don’t know where he went.
Nine: it’s Christmas Eve. We’re at Gram’s house and the fire is burning and it’s so warm. Eight, seven, six: I’m not sure if I want to be Wonder Woman or my mom when I grow up but they’re both kinda the same so does it really matter? Five: Mom got home from work late acting funny. Daddy said she just missed a meeting and that she’d be alright in the morning. Four: my hand is held firmly on both sides while my parents swing me back and forth. The world is solid beneath my feet. I hope I can be as in love as Mommy and Daddy when I grow up. Three, two, one, zero. I wonder if while I was in my Mom’s womb she wished that I would grow up to be just like her.
Eighteen: she tries to promise she’s better. Seventeen: silence. Sixteen: I move out without telling her. My entire life packed into a single dufflebag. It’s hard to breathe. Fifteen: we go on a vacation to Disney World - she slaps me across the face in the middle of the park. He tells me to stop being such a baby and grow-up. I can feel the ground beneath my feet starting to crumble. Fifteen: I cry myself to sleep to the sound of screaming. Fourteen: a pan flies through the air at my head. He screams at my brother and me as if he’s our father. Thirteen: his kids have stopped talking to him. Mom told us that it’ll be okay. He left angry and drunk last night. Twelve: my mom found out I like a girl tonight. She won’t look at me so, instead, I look in a mirror and wonder what I did wrong. Twelve: everyone says I look just like my Mom. Eleven: Mom started dating a new guy. He’s okay. His cooking is really yummy. Ten: my dad calls to ask if my mom’s still going to her AA meetings. I tell him yes, even though I don’t know what AA stands for and Mom hasn’t left her room in a week except to refill her drink. Ten: Dad and Mom got into a really bad fight. He left in the middle of a thunderstorm. It’s been two weeks, and we don’t know where he went.
Nine: it’s Christmas Eve. We’re at Gram’s house and the fire is burning and it’s so warm. Eight, seven, six: I’m not sure if I want to be Wonder Woman or my mom when I grow up but they’re both kinda the same so does it really matter? Five: Mom got home from work late acting funny. Daddy said she just missed a meeting and that she’d be alright in the morning. Four: my hand is held firmly on both sides while my parents swing me back and forth. The world is solid beneath my feet. I hope I can be as in love as Mommy and Daddy when I grow up. Three, two, one, zero. I wonder if while I was in my Mom’s womb she wished that I would grow up to be just like her.
