Acre Under a Green Sky

One night I woke up hungry. Classical music was coming from the record player in the living room. On my way to the kitchen, I found her asleep in her chair waiting for him to return home from his office –– his work –– his acre under a green sky.

There was an open paperback on her lap and a half-full glass of vodka on the table next to her chair. There was a full ashtray next to the glass with one long perfectly shaped ash of a burnt-out cigarette propped in the crook of the ashtray like the discarded skin of a snake.

The liquid in the glass was clear like water. I brought the glass to my lips. I tasted it and wretched with revulsion. This was what I imagined gasoline or kerosene tasted like. Why was my mother drinking this? This was not made for human beings. This was made for machinery. This was dangerous and vile. This was my mother's acre under a green sky.

I was putting the glass back on the table when she grabbed my wrist.

"Don't hate me," she said.

She was trying to read my feelings with those imploring eyes, but those eyes could not focus. She had the look of someone coming out of a coma.

"Why don't you just leave," I said; or thought, I don't remember which. My memory tells me I said it, but I don't think I did. It would have destroyed her, and I didn't have the guts for that. No, of course I didn't say it, but I chose to remember that I had.

Some memories are just lies we've told ourselves and have come to believe.