Mom

I was crouched down over a small shoe box in the garage. It was warm, sweat began to form droplets on my temples like morning dew. It pooled together on my cupid's bow, as my lips sat pursed, before slowly reshaping into a smile. A small laugh escaped my mouth as I reached down for a picture in the box. I noticed the way my hands are veiny like yours, distinctive violets and greens protruding from our olive toned skin. In the picture we were at the beach. Your hands held mine, my arms outstretched as I desperately tried to walk on my own. It was windy, your dark wavy hair floated gently behind your shoulders, pieces danced on your prominent collar bones. They looked like mine. I reached up and felt my hair, it was coarse like yours. Your jean shorts, bikini top, and my toddler body covered most of your stomach, but just below your chest I could see the slight shadow of your ribs. I closed my eyes and I could see myself now, looking in the mirror. I looked like you. In the picture you are looking down at me smiling, our noses are different, but our faces are just alike. Your cheekbones are high, creating a vivid set of lines around your mouth. Your lips are different, but we smile the same way. There are more pictures like this in the box. In one, you are standing next to my dad with your eye brows raised and your wide smile, and in that moment I swear we are the same. But we are not.

You don’t look like this anymore. You used to tell me that you quit drinking for the years surrounding my birth.

“I was pure as the driven snow,” you’d say, in a fairy tale voice.

Even at 5 I knew something was wrong. We lived with Grandma and Grandpa, in part because you couldn’t afford anything more after you and dad broke up. I remember crying because you weren’t home. My brother called all the bars to see if you were there. And isn’t it funny how you don’t realize things aren’t normal until someone makes you see that they aren’t? There are more stories like this.

When I was 11 you had passed out on the couch, groaning only momentarily. It was Superbowl Sunday and you were absolutely wasted. The 49ers had won, your team. I nudged your shoulder and told you with glee. You looked back at me blankly, our eyes identical to one another. My brother told me once that my eyes were striking. Yours didn’t look like that anymore. A rich, opaque brown, held no glimmer, only spite and resentment. You loved football, but not as much as you loved to drink.

You were drunk at my 8th grade celebration. You were drunk when Steven graduated highschool, and then again at his wedding. When Shane let you babysit my nephew, I could smell gin on your breath. You loved us, but not as much as you loved to drink.

I’ve never met a woman your age with as much blatant confidence. You love your body. I’ve never heard you shame yourself in the ways that I do. Our list of flaws, parallel and unwavering. You still wear bikinis and jean shorts in the summertime. You love healthy food and gardening. You love water. You love to listen to yourself talk and you always think you are right. I think we are alike in this way. You are strong in your beliefs. You love yourself, but not as much as you love to drink.

We sat on the couch in silence. I wanted so badly to rest my head on your shoulder. And we were close enough to do it, but the distance between us was immeasurable. Sometimes we talk and it occurs to me that you don’t even know who I am. I look up at you and see your eyes. I wonder if mine turn cold when I look at you for all the hurt I still feel. I look down at our legs, yours thin and weak, mine strong and solid. I think that maybe mine are like that from learning to walk through this life all by myself. Everyone knows it is hard to balance on unstable ground. I think about the reasons that you drink. The ones the I’ve gathered for myself at least. You are troubled, hurt. Everything was harder for you. I look back up at your face, my face, and in that moment I swear that we are the same.