For You, Ma

The vodka bottle sits open on her dresser half empty, half dead. The setting sun reflects off the smooth glass, creating a prism of rainbow light. It could almost be beautiful, almost be perfect, if you don't stare too hard, don't get too close. No one would ever know that the stale smell of liquor was always so thick it seemed to seep through the paint in the walls. No one would ever know that empty bottles happened often around here, as if they grew from the weeds in the yard. And no one would ever know how often her lips kissed those bottles in a romance all their own. My mother sits on her bed, half empty, half dead. The setting sun reflects off her smooth cheeks, making her skin glow abnormally warm. She could almost be beautiful, almost be perfect, if you don't stare too hard, don't get too close.