tell me about your mother

tell me about your mother,
the therapist asks me for the hundredth
time.
i let out an audible sigh.
now Stephen, she says,
we have to talk about this,
or you're never going to get better
and move on with your life
and find true love, not like that
catastrophe you recently went
through. now, do you want that again,
or not. tell me about your mother.

i blow my lips out making a
balloon like sound stuck
to a kids bike.
okay. my mother. here we go.
she was messed up in a lot of
ways.
codependent on my cheating,
whiskey drinking sailor boy
father.
she'd wait by the window for
him to come home before
the sun came up the next day.
she cried a lot and her
hands shook.
but she'd knit or crochet,
i don't know the difference,
poodle sleeves to slip
the liquor bottles into.
they lined the cabinets.
pink, purple, yellow and blue.
i can still see them till
this day.

she made us go to church every
sunday and pray for my father.
which never seemed to work.

and.
well. she had a tough life.
but she did the best she could
with what she knew. her options
were limited. she couldn't leave.
no money, no education.
she loved us unconditionally,
all seven of her kids,
though often in a daze,
lost and lonely,
bitterly confused.