I didn’t know lipstick and heels could save me from your destruction. My first memory was you, being UP all day and night, for four days straight as a kid. There my mama was, sputtering, mumbling to a cheap floor lamp as if it were God above.
In the beginning, I sat in my pajamas with a plastic baby doll. Her eyes were a shiny copper color. It brought me warmth, as I whispered, “Hush and Shh, we don’t bother Mama,” until I passed out on the floor with no blankets.
Later, I watched them tie you to a gurney as I stood with my Grandmother hand in hand. I slept with my doll for eight more years until I found blue jean mini skirts, rock music, and boys.
By then you had been in and out of the hospital six times. Still, I was used to it, the way a gambler or a druggie can never seem to find their way. I found my power with make-up those glossy, sleek gowns. I walked stages under bright lights as the others judged me on articulation and poise.
And, then, wa-la, like that, there you were, with Grandmother looking all doe-eyed and feeble in the audience as I took a bow and made the final three.
One tear fell, then there were a few, rolling, slipping, quietly from your empty eyes.