Maybe you’ve found a computer. Maybe you’re googling yourself to see if we’re looking for you, like last time. If you’re out there wondering, there’s no plan to drive you to a treatment center in Malibu this time. There’s no plan at all, really, because it largely depends on you.
Summer is here and I see you everywhere I look. In the daytime at the parks, homeless people find shade and sleep, waiting, I suppose, for the air to be cool enough that they can walk around in their layers, carrying all their stuff. I stare hard at each of them, wondering if they’re you. I have a fear that you’re going to be there, close to me, and I am going to be looking at a billboard, running my usual cynical commentary, and I’ll not see you.
I see people walking with your mannerism sometimes. Tall, thin, touching their hair, with legs and feet loping in a cartoonish way, shoulders rising and falling in bouncing rhythm with their steps. I see them and I stare at them, even after I know they aren’t you, wondering if maybe they are. Who knows what living on the streets has made of you? You could be any of them now. Maybe you don’t even walk that way anymore.
Last night I watched the Guitarmaggedon episode of “Home Movies” and I remembered how we watched every episode of that show together. The mother/son relationship in that show was so similar to ours. Before everything went to hell, you and I were simpatico. We were a remarkable duo; every person we ever encountered felt it.
When someone goes through a breakup, you try to remind them that time will heal them, whenever time gets off its ass and gets around to doing that. Eventually you stop feeling like someone’s standing on your neck, you can breath, and you forget how desperately you once needed that other person. With you, I am aware that this ache will never end. The memory of the salt sour smell of your skin is imprinted on me, after all. Biology forces that smell upon mothers as a way for us to help protect our young. I’m doing a piss poor job of protecting you.
Where are you, goddamit, and what are you doing, and why won’t you just give me the peace of knowing? You always hated that I wanted to know where you were and who you were with. I always told you, tough luck, buster. I’m your mom and that’s what we do. But you hated it so much that you made sure I couldn’t know. And now I’ve moved to a different place, have a different phone number.
I cannot give you up for gone and move on.You must know that. I am trying my hardest to chill and wait for you to come to your senses, dude, but as your brother tells me all the time, I have no chill at all. It’s been six months. That’s long enough. It’s time to come home, sit down with me, and talk things through. Dig into the part of you that remembers who I really am to you instead of this version of myself that I became when you started getting in trouble. Maybe watch this episode of Home Movies. Maybe imagine watching that in the air conditioned living room while eating food you don’t have to beg for money to get. Whatever it takes. I’m here.
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