There he was. Tired. Not responding. On my bed. Excreting the pungent smell of alcohol from his every pore. Shoes on his feet still. Exhausted. Wounded from a drunken fight out on the streets. Desperate and lost but finally … home.
I was angry. At first. Then I stood there. Looking at him. Not knowing what to do. Not wanting to make his night even worse by calling the police to have him removed. I felt so sad for him. At the same time frustrated. My home. My window. My bedroom. Nothing safe.
There I stood. Phone clasped in hand, thumb tracing three numbers on the keypad. -- 9.1.1.
This should be a wake-up call, I tell myself. Why do you keep letting him do this kind of stuff? I ask myself. He’s crossed a boundary that he’s already been kicking way too many times.
Yes, this is a wake-up call, I think, but – just like it is typical for me – I’ve been hitting the snooze button about 100 times. Is this the bell that’ll make me get up and move? Is this the one that will finally get me to dare choose “dismiss” instead of “snooze”? --- It’s time to WAKE UP! You may enjoy your little dream, I quietly yell at myself, your illusion of you and him happily ever after….but…it’s time to return to reality ….the sobering, cloudy day without J.
And so – I walk over the shattered glass on the floor - crunching sounds from beneath my shoes – I close the curtains, walk back to the bed, cover him with a blanket to protect him from the cold breeze coming through the broken window, turn off the light, and let him be. - For tonight.
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