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The fifteen-minute rant nets some
pertinent information. Mom’s fragile
life has shattered yet again. Ron beat
her up, possibly left a stash of meth
where the cops who came calling
could, or even would, find it. And now
it’s up to her, in a couple of weeks,
to try and convince a judge that she,
a proven liar and twice-convicted
felon, is, this time, completely innocent.
Best of luck, mother-of-mine. I don’t
believe you. Why should a judge?
BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT SHE WANTS
To hear. So I listen without commentary.
And, I guess, less sympathy than she,
for some stupid reason, expects.
Well? she finishes. Nothing to say?
Her supercilious tone irritates me.
“Sucks to be you,” is the best I can
do. What does she want from me?
How can you be so … so mean?
Now, somehow, it’s on me? My turn
to blow. “God, Mom, are you stupid
or what? Why don’t you move the fuck
away from there? Go somewhere
Ron can’t find you. Start over …
Get a real job. Take care of your kids.”
How would I do that? I don’t have—
“Don’t say it. Don’t say you don’t have
the resources. Grandma Marie would
