Mamma loves me. I know she does. I'm just not convinced she knows how.
A long, warm day mid-july left us drenched in sweat. The ice-cream dripped down our small hands and made our fingers stick together.
This would amuse us for hours, as our minds were floating in the marijuana cloud above our heads.
Shirtless, wearing nothing but bikini-bottoms, we smoked and talked and sang by the lake we were convinced was put in this addictive city just for us.
We would watch the boys, or rather men, from the college in our town. I could feel their lustful eyes wonder over my bare, pubescent body.
Perversity hid in their confident smiles, and determination in their hands. First on the grass. Then on my hand. Then my thigh. My pale, smooth, skinny thigh.
I came home covered in the smell of man, or were they maybe boys? Mamma was sleeping, as she always would, with a bottle of Jack resting in her hand, as if she was a child, and it her pacifier.
She could yell so loud, my mamma! So loud that the whole neighborhood would wake up screaming "murder!" and call the police.
Little and I would have to wake her up and try to explain to the police that she just had a bad dream.
She would take her "medicine", that had made her sick to begin with, and fall back into an euphoric intoxication.
Little would go to her room and dance, sing, draw, play or whatever she was doing. I would go to the lake. Or club. Or party. Anywhere, really, far away from home.
Anywhere I could be alive for a while. We, my usual girls and the college-boys, would, for just a moment or two, forget about our worries, and lived in a heavenly ignorance.
She had bought a cake the day before the day of my birth, that sweet mamma of mine. A big one, with the words "happy 15 years, Kitty" written on it in sweet, baby pink frosting.
She looked me in the eyes, and told me she had her act together this time. For once, I almost believed her. Almost. The next day, the day of the day, is a blurry, beautiful mess for me.
I woke up, and she was gone. I took the cake out of the fridge and threw it in the trash, filled a duffel bag with goods from her stash and met up with my usual squad.
Mamma returned two weeks later and went straight to bed. She slept for almost three days.
Cold air struggled its way down my throat, and fought its way out, as i would scream and cry on that cold January morning.
That dark, gray, rainy, blurry mess of moments that all piled together to a day, that ephemeral of a day, that still seemed to be the longest day in my life.
While mamma was gone, I had been the same. I had rarely been home. Only to get some clean clothes and maybe some of the little food we had.
I thought Little was gone too, I swear! She was after all seven years old! I took care of myself back then, as should she.
My head seemed to be unable to follow the rhythm of my body, and it took many long, cold inhales, and soundless screams, for me to finally cry for momma to run and see.
She stood by the door, and for a while that seemed timeless, we stared at each other. It was as if, for once in our lives, we saw each other.
I felt naked and fragile, yet I knew I was stronger than she. She stood there, and said nothing. In this golden dizzy moment, we were one and all. We were alone, lonely, with each other.
For a little while. Nothing was said, moved, changed or done. Only one slow, exhausted tear fell from mammas right eye.
As it moved its way down her cheekbones, cheek and chin, we stood unchanged. But, as was the tear our naked moment, as it left her face, she left the door.
She went straight back to her room and closed the door. She left me sitting on the baby-pink, piss-stained floor, holding Littles cold, hard, decomposing body in my helpless arms.
I hope you understand, that I understand. I understand how hard it was for you to loose daddy. I understand how hard it was to look at your two children, and see him.
I understand that it was hard to find out he left us with nothing, and gave everything he owned to that barely-pubescent whore he had been seeing from day one. I understand it was hard, mamma.
But what I truly don't understand, mamma, is how you got to deal with it, and I didn't.
I get that it was hard, and that you needed time to recover, but what about me? What about Little? What if you spent all the time and energy you spent being angry and broken, on us?
I know you love me mamma. Just as you loved, and still love, Little.
The day daddy died, I lost two parents. The loss, that resulted in the loss of Little. The loss, that results in the loss of me. You see, mamma, it is just like those blissful days by the lake.
Everything can seem so good, but the days end. We can't keep living in these endless enchanted moments. Every summer ends. The lake gets covered in ice, and the boys go home to their families.
But momma, winter doesn't last forever! Eventually, the sun pokes through, and, before you know it, were all back in the lake, with the boys, in the endless soon-to-be-over marijuana haze.
Yes, momma, were back, and for a while, we forget about the winter. Just for a while. And thats okay.
I want you to know I took this from your room. The syringe was on the floor right in front of the door, and the drugs right next to it.
You could have at least hidden it a little? Hidden it, and saved Little?