I remember trying not to cry. I was an adult, but inside I needed you. Still. I remember sitting on the cold hard floor and leaning against the porcelain, holding you up, asking if you were alright. Wiping your face, pulling back your hair as you lurched forward for what I had hoped would be the last time.
But it wasn't.
You were "never a drinker." You didn't do drugs. At least not the kind that didn't come with a label and a prescription.
Was it you? Was it the tiny little pills?
Why did you leave? Where did you go? Why didn't you want to be with me? With us? Those little faces. Babies. They were just babies. They looked to me and asked why. I had no answer. I was lost just as they were.
I know your history. Your pain. Your abandonment. The pills. The booze. The things that will forever go unspoken. I feel for that little girl you once were. I would hug her, hold her, and tell her it will be OK. But. The little girl you once were is gone. You are here and I still have no answers.
Instead. We go on . . . we fight for each second of awkward normalcy. We forget your "sabbatical." Or, at least we let you forget. Our quiet shame . . .
But each day I am reminded. The face of a cherub. That smile that brightens up even the darkest day. The laugh that sounds like little bells. He "tells" me that it will be different. That the cycle will be broken. I will be different. I will try to be good. I will learn from a past that I will never escape.
I will embrace him. He will inspire me to be more . . .
*Filed under super personal story that I will need to delete if my parents ever find my blog . . .
