I am home alone. Except, I am not. Because I am a mother, and so I am never home alone. 

I am drunk when I shouldn’t be, because I am a mother, and I am never alone. I am face down on the couch, arm hanging over the side, gin glass in hand. I like gin, the herbal, piney flavor. The way it burns but isn’t too rough on the throat. I like the clink of the ice against my teeth, my yellowing teeth. I’ve been sneaking cigarettes at night, long after the kids are asleep. Smoking reminds me of seventeen-year-old me, without the children, but with the gin. 

I know the curtains on the window above the couch are billowing over me, not because I’m looking at them, but because I’ve left the window open, and I can feel the breeze. I like the breeze. It feels good against my skin, where my dress has hiked up my legs. Though, I ought to close the window, because it’s December, and I am a mother, and I am never alone. 

There were lots of skies when I was seventeen. Lots of night skies in parking lots, lots of stars, friends I thought secured by blood promise. Cut open hands, clasped in contract, passing gin from vein to vein. Smoke rising up between grins in the headlights. 

My children are asleep upstairs. I tucked them in a half hour ago, read to them, scratched their backs, played with their hair. They should be asleep now, but are likely crawling around above me. I think I can hear them. Or maybe it’s just the sound of the wind climbing through the open window. 

They absolutely do not know me, my children. They look at me and their eyes tell me they know me, but they absolutely do not know me. I am so wholly unprepared for this. 

I get up from the couch and drag my feet along the carpeted floor and find the coolness of the tile in the bathroom. In the mirror, I look at myself and I do not know me. I look right into my eyes, green like sliced open cucumbers, wide and cold. I was told I’d have a lifetime to get to know myself, but I absolutely do not know me.