The lost mother is too boney with sunken eyes. Her baby is plump, a child with ash hair that whines. The lost mother feeds and dresses him hovering over his tiny limbs throughout the day. At night, she pours the whiskey. She drinks-drinks to water the holes inside. Later, she’ll start dialing numbers to speak to anyone that will listen.
The lost mother is needy. If you are with her for any length of time you begin to feel beaten, worn-down. The lost mother must take the medication to get by. On the days she skips it, she pours the whiskey instead.
The lost mother's baby is helpless. He's a sluggish child who hears his mother whispering. He sees sadness in her eyes, and something inside him always freezes up. The lost mother still hovers around him, but she's not there really. She's going through the motions lifeless with heavy bones. She needs love, therapy, family, a drug. And in this, she remembers her Prozac but doesn't take it, the lost mother, she dumps them in the garbage can.
The lost mother cannot think straight. She drifts about clinging to her pasty boy thinking of herself as a child. Her parents always left her behind with sitters, a nanny, or friends. They were busy people who collected, sold antiques and traveled abroad. They continually passed the poor, frail girl around as if she were stale bread at supper.
When the lost mother's husband gets home, he sinks quietly behind his newspaper. He doesn't listen to the incessant chatter, instead, he falls into a deep slumber from the long workday. He may have cared for the lost mother once, but presently resents living with a head case. He does not believe in divorce, so he sleeps and works. He will sleep and work his way around her.
Her baby’s crying. The lost mother is under the table with her head tucked beneath her arms as if a tornado's coming, but the storm is roaring inside. She hears noises thinking it's the sound of sirens coming. She whimpers, whines like a poodle. The voices have told her to stay. The lost mother stays the way good dogs do for hours.
Later the sirens do come.
The lost mother is still crouched on the floor, so her husband phones for assistance. The father pacifies the baby with the Animal Cracker nursery song he has heard somewhere for he will not get to his newspaper tonight. Soon it will be over.
He stands under gray clouds watching the men force her into the ambulance. He smooths back his son's light curls and whispers, "I'm sorry. There, it's all better now. You had a lost mother."
In the distance, he hears thunder rumbling. It's a new storm, but the boy doesn't flinch. He notices the baby's eyes are somewhat hollow. Within an instant, this flash, the husband thinks he can see something strange and familiar lurking there.
The lost mother is needy. If you are with her for any length of time you begin to feel beaten, worn-down. The lost mother must take the medication to get by. On the days she skips it, she pours the whiskey instead.
The lost mother's baby is helpless. He's a sluggish child who hears his mother whispering. He sees sadness in her eyes, and something inside him always freezes up. The lost mother still hovers around him, but she's not there really. She's going through the motions lifeless with heavy bones. She needs love, therapy, family, a drug. And in this, she remembers her Prozac but doesn't take it, the lost mother, she dumps them in the garbage can.
The lost mother cannot think straight. She drifts about clinging to her pasty boy thinking of herself as a child. Her parents always left her behind with sitters, a nanny, or friends. They were busy people who collected, sold antiques and traveled abroad. They continually passed the poor, frail girl around as if she were stale bread at supper.
When the lost mother's husband gets home, he sinks quietly behind his newspaper. He doesn't listen to the incessant chatter, instead, he falls into a deep slumber from the long workday. He may have cared for the lost mother once, but presently resents living with a head case. He does not believe in divorce, so he sleeps and works. He will sleep and work his way around her.
Her baby’s crying. The lost mother is under the table with her head tucked beneath her arms as if a tornado's coming, but the storm is roaring inside. She hears noises thinking it's the sound of sirens coming. She whimpers, whines like a poodle. The voices have told her to stay. The lost mother stays the way good dogs do for hours.
Later the sirens do come.
The lost mother is still crouched on the floor, so her husband phones for assistance. The father pacifies the baby with the Animal Cracker nursery song he has heard somewhere for he will not get to his newspaper tonight. Soon it will be over.
He stands under gray clouds watching the men force her into the ambulance. He smooths back his son's light curls and whispers, "I'm sorry. There, it's all better now. You had a lost mother."
In the distance, he hears thunder rumbling. It's a new storm, but the boy doesn't flinch. He notices the baby's eyes are somewhat hollow. Within an instant, this flash, the husband thinks he can see something strange and familiar lurking there.
