a glass of red delight

Saturday, March 03, 2007

           

a glass of red delight

I drink wine.

I have been drinking for quite some time now, my first glass was when I was 13 years old. It was the first time meeting the parents of my sister's fiance (now husband.) Mom and I drove to Pottstown, Pennsylvania from Cleveland; I think it was spring. I was a painfully shy girl and my brother-in-law's parents were retired teachers so they were used to drawing impossibly timid children out of their hard shells and I was no different. We had dinner one night, I was wearing that awful red turtleneck. We had wine with dinner, my mom let me. I got tipsy and honest and I smiled a lot despite the askew teeth in my mouth that I had practiced for years in concealing as much as possible.

I loved the warmth and the excuse.

Since that moment I have always cherished the experience of loosening, a feeling I haven't had a lot of time with. I wish I could capture it, I wish I could store it inside naturally and tap into it when I need it the most. I love towing the line between relaxation and remembering. I love the freedom I take in allowing for the memories to wash over me. The painful and the joyful. The awkward and the sublime

Mom.

Fletch.

Losing everything.

Getting back, but better.

Aunt Patty.

Painted cowgirl.

Falling.

Starting.

Recovery.

Relapse.

Recovery.

Here.

All of it, it rushes back. I relive it and I let it stay a minute. I let regret set it's stony finger on my furrowed brow then watch it shrink.

I cannot apologize, I know it now that it would be impossible. It's too much. It's too much.

I can atone, I can go on and love fiercely and kind.

At least I can try.