Mother

I remember being locked in my room for the meth filled days, and the fistfights fueled by the meth rage. Just me and my two brothers- not fearing monsters under the bed like other children, but the ones on the other side of our bedroom door. The horror of seeing the silhouettes of random humans beaming through your bedroom window while you try to sleep on the floor. Engraved in my head the time I walked through that the door, my mother wearing nothing but frown, tears flowing from her eyes with a sea of dollar bills covering the ground. No doubt from another night at the strip club. A reality I learned being locked in the car at night trying to sleep as she worked. I guess Patrick slapped her up again, but this guy is not my mother’s version of a man; she tells me as a guy to a woman I should never raise my hand. But yet my mother played the role of punching bag to random men.

I and my brothers were adopted but left scarred from physical and mental abuse. I was anxious knowing that someone who looks just like me was out there as an addict living on the street. Rage engulfed my soul because of what she allowed us to go through. So now at 26, I stand outside a Mexican restaurant with her asking me to put five bucks in her hand. I get mad cause she’s high, telling me how much she wants me around; my eyes glaring at the ground, while she’s tweaked out bouncing around… Then I hear the words ring out piercing my ears, “Come on, be a pal,” at this point, I am pissed off now. I smile, part my lips forcefully and say “I love you mom, later; I shall see you around.” As I walk back to my apartment, in my mind the words are racing at the speed of Usain Bolt! I want to scream, “I love you, mom; I want to save you, mom! Take away those demons in the forms of pipes and bottles that break you, mom; but I’m angry because you never played the role of mom. You ask me to be a pal when all I’ve ever wanted was to be your son.”