C is for CRY
Stop watching yourself cry!
My mother, her eyes red, the weed smoke blown in my direction, the beaded leather roach clip with the single feather dangling from the rearview mirror.
I was sitting shotgun, probably 6 years old. Kenny Rogers was singing about friendship. I was...
I am enough.
Watching mom get into the truck again. Knowing she is driving away from us, into the bottle, towards the smoke for yet another night or 2 or 3.
Me feeling like the common denominator in it all. My mom leaving us, my bio father leaving, and never getting whiplash as he drove...