The dinner was fantastic. The relatives didn’t get all that drunk. My headache even dissipated. Then we got home. My meth-addict son was incoherent, agitated and hostile. His skin was paler than I’ve ever seen while he’s using, and frankly the whole thing scared the daylights out of us. His dad spent the night on the sofa, in case things got violent or if our son had a seizure or a stroke. My oldest son, Nate, sat up all night with his bro, talking calmly, trying to keep him out of danger, listening to nonsense and rage.If Nate hadn’t been here, it would have been a “sheriff night.” The crisis drug van, “CAHOOTS,” doesn’t come past the city limits.
This scene is not unusual at our house, but each time it repeats I must learn certain things again. Today I don’t know what to do with my emotions. My husband is napping because he lost too much sleep last night. Nate’s off to work. And I’m sitting here, holding the whole mess in my cracked, sore hands.
About once every five seconds, I offer the mess to God. At intervals, grace stays just out of reach, then washes over me like a song. I remember the tune but I can’t recall the words. I wish I could cry. Instead, my heart crumples in my chest. The squeezing is a vise that whispers, “Don’t tell.” No one wants to hear about this kind of pain. There is no hope.
In a corner of my mind, a hill appears, smothered in thick clouds. Standing atop, a maned creature, who opens his mouth. The Lion begins to sing. The world pauses, keeps time. My fingers reach up. The Singer splinters the clouds into shards of sky. I begin again.