I could always tell when she was about to leave.
Sitting on the commode, I’d stare at her reflection
In the bathroom mirror as she primped
And drank whisky from a cold coffee cup.
She would light a cigarette and
Blow the smoke out the tiny window,
Flipping her sun bleached hair with each drag.
“Don’t tell.” She’d say to me with a wink.
“You know he hates it when I smoke”.
The coffee was supposed to cover the whisky smell,
But it never did. How beautiful I thought she was!
I wanted to be just like her; my mother.
Sometimes smiling, often not – she always found the door.
“Don’t worry!” She’d quip. “I’ll be home soon. I promise.”
But she never was home soon, if at all -
and I always worried.
I Always Worried
