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WINE<br />
She pours me another glass of wine. Fills it to the brim and sets<br />
the bottle between us. These nights are rare, as she’s usually absent<br />
from our house. I want to tell her that I miss her, ask her why she’s<br />
never here. Yell at her for putting her “most important” people behind<br />
her career. I want to cry and show her how much I love her.<br />
Yet, nothing comes out at first, like my voice has completely<br />
vacated my body…so I sip my wine. Then, I gulp my wine, hoping that<br />
she’d be the first to speak if I drink improperly. I grab the bottle again,<br />
and pour myself another, look her in the eye and offer another glass.<br />
She mutters a yes and slides her glass in front of mine. We empty that<br />
bottle, and she stumbles to the cupboard to get another.<br />
“When do you leave?” I ask her, while twirling my now empty<br />
glass with my fingers.<br />
“I’m not sure” she replies, tipping her glass upward as to finish the<br />
last drop of wine in her glass.<br />
The house in dark, there’s only a dim light in the living room. She<br />
stares at her glass, as if looking for a conversation topic with me. It’s so<br />
quiet in this kitchen. I can hear the clock ticking the seconds away.<br />
She’s avoiding my stare…and every minute of silence is digging into<br />
me. It’s already eleven o’clock and school starts at eight tomorrow<br />
morning. Senior year is almost over and I can’t wait to graduate. It’d be<br />
more exciting if I knew my mom would be there… I want to show her I<br />
made it through high school, without her. Then, come August I’ll be<br />
driving away from the hell-hole to Florida. I’ll have everything I need,<br />
Nicky in the seat next to me and all our belongings in the back seat.<br />
Waving good-bye to a woman who’ll never accept reality.<br />
“Mmm…”<br />
Shit!<br />
I look over, realizing she’s stumbled into the counter and ripped<br />
her designer dress on the corner. She brings over another bottle and<br />
pours us another glass, my fifth one tonight. I hope she realizes that<br />
this doesn’t exactly qualify as cozy mother-daughter time. An eighteen<br />
year old should not be getting drunk with her mother. That’s not normal,<br />
I think to myself, but I don’t even know what normal is.<br />
“Mom…do you miss us when you’re gone?” It must be the wine<br />
talking, I think, because I never open up this discussion willingly.<br />
“Mm Schweetie, of coursh. I’m a business woman, and I always<br />
mish you.” She slurs between sips.<br />
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