A day of grace?
A day of freedom and privilege?
One is typically elated to see his or her loved one released from the strict and steady arms of the law; released from what this society has titled probation.
However, here I sit by my favorite willow in some type of desperation; a type of disheartenment. Recalling a time when a bag of the latest trend would be more important than having a half gallon of milk in the bare, off-white refrigerator, I become hesitant to be happy for this release that is fast-approaching.
Crack cocaine. Valium. Speed. That’s what used to be the primary goal of the household.
“Open my purse, honey. Grab my Chapstick.”
Well, I’ll be damned. This certainly isn’t your typical marijuana pipe. It surely is not a tobacco pipe. The straight piece of glass is odd and unfamiliar in my adolescent mind.
Settled by the willow, watching the geese move onward, my attention vividly jumps further backward. There’s those gray rehab walls, the courtyard full of weeds and dead petunias that the sun could barely touch past those high concrete walls.
Yet here I rest, in the present. No more crack pipes where the Chapstick ought to be. Now there are home-cooked meals baked to perfection. Enough bread and milk to feed an entire army. The air currently reeks of responsibility and compassion. Something that I had dreamed of in my teenage years.
But for how long will my personal Utopia persist? I feel anxious knowing this enchantment cannot last forever. How long until she announces, “I’m just going up to the city”?