Anger Management

We drive North on I-95 toward Worcester. Mira asks about Mom’s history of dependency. She still tries to get her mind around addiction.

Leaves have already changed. Red, orange, yellow radiate from all the trees flanking the highway. Some leaves float on gentle breezes that come and go. Others—still hanging—catch glints of sunlight that sporadically pierce the overcast sky.

My psychic scars bleed again as I remember.

Mom lay on the floor, her eyes closed. I, a child not yet ten, wondered why she wouldn’t wake up. She called to me before I dialed the operator. Years later, I dreaded seeing that telltale glint in her eye, the sneer on her face, the intrusive conversations in which I felt soiled just listening. But I feared even more the explosive arguments we would have whenever I had enough – and said so. And I hated the sinking feeling that…