32 Squared

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.