My idea of dressing up had always been comfi, faded jeans and t-shirt since I was a very young child. My mother's idea, on the other hand, was fluffy dresses, adorned with lots of lace, and huge bows in my hair. Gosh, I hated those bows! I remember the day when this picture was taken in the photographer's studio.
I felt miserable, and it shows in the picture. No matter what my mom promised or even threatened to take away, I refused to smile.
Mom didn't give up to have a perfect picture taken of me dressed in her favorite outfit, so when we got home, she made me pose under the acacia tree that was filled with flowers. Unnoticed by her because she was busy setting the camera, I inched my way closer and closer to the tree branches.
To my great satisfaction, the hated bow got caught and tangled in the branch and when I yanked my head, the sharp thorns ripped the silk bow to shreds.
One glance at mom's angry eyebrows told me I was in big trouble, so I started running toward the front porch to reach the safety of my dad's embrace that always saved me from my mother's wrath. But in my haste, I stepped into the dog's water bowl, skidded, and fell into the muddy flower bed that dad just finished watering. My fluffy dress was ruined but the pitiful look on my face must have softened mom's anger because she quietly put the camera away and never again forced me to wear the enormous bows and fluffy dresses.
Here I sit, all alone on our faded cream sofa.
My feet are hanging over one of the dark wooden arms, as my hand grasps the tumbler ever tighter.
The half-empty bottle on the coffee table speaks volumes, as my eyes shed droplets like the whiskey tears running down the outside of the glass.
Was it only last week that she packed her bags and left, clearing out the bank account on her way to meet her new lover?
Someone I knew so very, very well; my mate and my best friend.
I really, really . . . miss him.