Monday my mom phoned me screaming. She fell and was stuck in the back bedroom closet.
“Hurry!” she pleads.
When I get there I find her sitting at the kitchen table.
“My Hero!” she kids.
I sit down and patiently listen to her harrowing story of extraction and survival.
“I need a drink!” she demands.
I hear the cabinet door. The familiar sound, a waterfall of poision splases over stale icebergs.
She has a rhythym to her drinking. Gulp “ahhhhh”, Gulp “ahhhhh”; the tipping glass sings an inebriated tempo.
“I love you” she coos.
I sat down with her loving me and stood up when she started hating me. She’s been a stranger longer than she’s been a mother. 9 years have past. Tonight, she’s my problem. But, sip after sip, I become problematic.
“Get out!” she spits.
“Don’t go” she pleads, "I"m suicidal,"
It’s 3:00 a.m. I awaken from a dream in which I asked her to finish dieing. My mind tickles. A realization, a painful brightness, a heavy dawn and finally, truth. " There’s no phone in her back bedroom!" I scream.