In this picture you’re holding my hand in front of the small rock house where I spent my childhood. You must have been dropping me off. Your face has that pinched look from too much mothering.
Maybe I was returning home from one of your parenting flings, a euphoric couple of weeks filled with dress-making, iced cinnamon rings from the Betty Crocker cookbook, trips to the zoo. A fantasy family life, usually ended by a painful slide into a two or three day drinking binge, followed by tears, remorse, and a solemn drive back to Grandmother’s house.
Maybe I was returning home from one of your parenting flings, a euphoric couple of weeks filled with dress-making, iced cinnamon rings from the Betty Crocker cookbook, trips to the zoo. A fantasy family life, usually ended by a painful slide into a two or three day drinking binge, followed by tears, remorse, and a solemn drive back to Grandmother’s house.
Sifting through the box of photographs there’s rarely any taken on the high side of this roller coaster. Perhaps we were all too caught up in the hope that this time would be different. Maybe it was your fear that there might not be a next time that brought out the small box camera to capture the moment.
This particular photo was mounted on a button, surely something special. It lay in the bottom of the box, next to one that proclaimed "I Like Ike" which I wore to school all one fall. I can’t imagine anyone in my family caring about politics or even voting. But I remember wearing that button and walking around chanting “I Like Ike! I Like Ike!” Scratch even the staunchest liberal and you might find a dirty little secret.
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