My Mama

Mama is always sleeping; I can’t help but wonder why she needs so much sleep. She left my sandwich on the kitchen counter, half made, and not what I wanted anyway. Ham and cheese is gross, I told her peanut butter, not the one with the nuts in it, the other kind. But then again, remembering even to make my sandwich for school is a start, because sometimes I have to take quarters and dines from my jar to pay for lunch, I really hate the school lunch, so the sandwich is a little better than school food. Anyway today is Swiss steak for lunch, and I hate Swiss steak, so I’m taking the ham and cheese.

School was boring, but home isn’t much better. Mama doesn’t like the lights on, and the house is a mess. My friend’s moms don’t sleep all the time, and let the house get this way. But my Mama is different. I try to wake her up, so she can see my report card, but I always have trouble getting myself to wake her up. She looks so happy sleeping, except when she snores, then it’s not so nice and I have to go to my room cause I can’t stand the noise. I start the usual after school routine by picking up the kitchen; there are two almost empty bottles of my mom’s favorite drink. Pouring them down the drain, I hold my breath because the smell will make me puke. I see her container of medications and put them away in the bathroom, where they should be, and continue into the living room and into her bedroom. Dad is gone, he left a while ago. But sometimes he calls on my birthday.

My mama is awake now, stumbling through the room she goes into the kitchen and starts screaming, I know I did something wrong. I run to the kitchen and see my mom leaning against the counter, and she looks me straight in the eye and her arm reaches across and grabs me by the shirt. Her other hand whips across my face. With a sting I remembered what I did wrong. I can’t believe I could have done something wrong, but the coming bruise on my left cheek will remind me. I moved her pills.






Walking into the empty house I know memories are going to flood my mind. My mother has just passed away, and I need to empty the house, so I can finally get rid of this chapter in my life. The house itself smells like stale whiskey and cigarette smoke. Years of my life were spent here and I hate those years in my life. I walk into the kitchen and thoughts race through my head.

I was at school like any other day, and came home to find my mother still in bed, hung over and still in her nightgown for the week. She usually didn’t change out of her pajamas during the week. Ten years old, I was still in elementary school and I didn’t know anything about my mother. But that day specifically stands out in my mind. She was screaming at me, telling me that I emptied her liquor bottles, and moved her medications. I know I shouldn’t have moved them, but I just wanted a life like my friend’s lives. My mother raised her hand, and for the first and last time, she slapped me across the face. After that she turned around and left. I couldn’t believe she had actually hit me. What kind of mother does that? Certainly not my mother. My face stung with the hand on my face. I just wanted some normalcy, some stability, and I got a mark that reminded me that I would never have that with my mother. She apologized some time after that, but to this day I hate my mother for the life she put me through. I can still feel her hand on my face, not the hand of a loving mother, but of the hand of an addicted woman.