You can’t read this one without reading the Polaroid post – I mean you can but you’ll lack context for sure. But you do you boo – I’m going to tell the story regardless.
If my memory serves me correctly, because no one in my family talks about this part, I was 4. I’m pretty sure it was summer time. Washington DC – the air was thick and heavy. My mom and I were staying with her boyfriend and his daughter at his place. We were in downtown, the doors and windows had bars and everything around me was concrete. I didn’t spend a lot of time here but I knew my way downstairs to the lady who lived below us. Her name was Romaine. She would give us each a dollar and we’d go to the little gas station or corner store – not entirely sure about that part – and we’d buy candy. It was 1981 – candy was cheap.
I don’t remember what I was wearing or what the inside of the house looked like, and I definitely don’t remember the entire summer, but I do have three very distinct memories (complete with images seered into my young brain) from that time:
The first – I remember riding around in the back seat of a large car. I don’t know what kind of car it was – Maybe a pontiac? Maybe it was blue? That could have come later – I have no idea. I just remember that it was dark, we were circling the block (and I only know that because it was later described to me that way by the very friendly police officer) and then my mom and her boyfriend both seemed to panic. There were red and blue lights flashing and then police officers were at all of the windows. There were bright flash lights and a lot of yelling. That’s it. I do know there was a female police officer who checked all of my pockets and touched me all over my body – but my mom was getting the same thing done to her – so it seemed ok, right?
The second – I watched my mother pull a syringe from her purse. This may or may not have been the same day that we were pulled over – but likely not. The syringe was in a case. It looked fancy. I don’t think she knew I was watching but I also don’t think she would have cared if I was. I mean she would have if she was clean but that wasn’t the case. I watched her and her boyfriend use a lighter to melt a spoon. Clearly they were not melting a spoon but in my memory – four-year old me could not understand why they were trying to set the spoon on fire! I watched as she tied a shoestring (I don’t know for sure that it was a shoestring) around her bicep, giggled at some joke her boyfriend made and then I watched as she slid that needle into her arm. I remember yelling at that moment for her to stop. I asked if she was sick and she looked at me and said, ‘No, baby, I’m fine,’ and then closed her eyes and smiled at me. I don’t remember much about what happened next or how much time went by before I tried to wake her up.
The last – I climbed up on a stool or chair – I don’t remember which but I remember it was wooden. I could barely reach the phone but with the stool – I could dial the rotary phone. One number after the other just like my grandmother had made me practice. I remember crying and telling her I was hungry. I remember my uncle showing up and then the ambulance leaving with my mom in it. And then I remember my uncle taking me to the same little gas station down the street that I had been to before to pick out whatever food I wanted. I guess, technically, the bonus memory I have is visiting my mom in the hospital for the first time. I remember her eyes the most. They were mostly closed but when they opened and she set them on me, she smiled and said ‘oh baby, don’t cry, I’m fine.’
It took 25 more years for her to die.
This Is My Path 