by Kim Smith
It’s time to put her to bed. She’s asleep from all the wine but this time she didn’t start yelling. It’s always worse when she yells. Overall, it’s been a good night.
It’s not hard to put her to bed when she’s drunk. She just falls into me. It’s like she knows she’s wasted and she lets me guide her to the bedroom. She’s like a big doll that flops on the mattress, almost like she’s dead. But I know she’s not dead because she always curls up with the pillow and tells me she loves me. I love her, too.
I can’t forget to set the alarm. Tomorrow’s a workday. I’ll do what I can to help her be ready for work. Oatmeal, coffee, and aspirin set out for breakfast. Cell phone in the briefcase. Keys by the purse. She’ll move slowly, grabbing her head and complaining but I have a system that always gets her in the car and on her way to work by 7:15.
The blue glow from the TV illuminates her sad face. I hate this part. Waking her up. She always starts crying when she looks at me. But we need to go to bed.
She left a whole glass of wine on the table. It’s the first thing I pick up because that’s the last thing she needs to see in the morning. I pour it down the sink and sigh. Flexing my arms, I prepare to put mom to bed.