Patrick
April 17th
Little sexual contact? TW?
Tuesday.
Once again it's Tuesday.
And we're on our way to see my mom.
Frank, Gerard, Pete, and me.
Radiohead in the background.
Clear, dark skies.
Stars, moon, and little clouds.
Pete's hand on my thigh.
Us in the backseat.
Gerard's humming to the music.
Backpacks, hoodies, and jackets;
My disregarded baseball cap.
It's somewhere on the floor.
It's warm in the car.
Cheeks pink, red lips, and eyes bright.
Pete's soft skin.
Frank's blowing bubbles.
Pink gum, all against his mouth.
"How many days clean?" Gerard asks.
"Four." I scratch the back of my neck.
"It's a start..." Frank mumbles.
"It's always just 'a start,' Frank."
He sighs.
I groan, "she's not getting better."
"How long has she been...drinking?"
Pete asks so hesitantly and carefully.
He's afraid I'll freak out, brake down.
Something.
"She's been an alcoholic since..."
I think for a moment, "eighth grade."
"I'm sorry." He mumbles.
"Don't be," I look at his scared eyes.
"It's always been this way, Pete."
And I think that was the wrong thing;
thing for me to say.
Because he looks even more scared.
"Patrick, are you okay?" Gerard asks.
He looks at me.
It's through the rear view mirror.
"Fine."
"You can talk to us." Frank says.
"I know, I just have nothing to say."
He sighs, then nods.
———
"Patrick." My mom whispers.
"Hi, Mommy." I respond.
She stands at the other end.
Of this room, and we speak.
But quietly.
Then she runs over to me.
And she hugs me so fucking tight.
"I love you." She says.
"I love you too."
And then seconds turn to minutes.
And minutes to hours.
