A series of essays exploring my experiences with alcohol and alcoholism

My mother is an alcoholic.

I HATE saying this. I hate saying the words,

There is

My mother used to take me to used bookstores.

Some find themselves only after they are lost.

Between the stacks I heard your quiet sigh.

I want to draw them like my french girls.

How she is quiet before his robe falls

“He's NO Hemmingway!”

This was a reported exchange

Driving home through the countryside as the sun set,

I want to draw you like my french girls.

How she is quiet before his robe falls

Imagination as a fabricated memory.