Mom sits on the couch chair. Her white stumpy legs extended from my brother's old highschool baseball shorts. Tacky lightening bolt printed on the left leg. She's always stealing shorts and socks and anything else. An iridescent white light bulb shines intense-
fly from the ceiling, directly on her. Her leg is propped up on the arm -- a position she's assumed for years now. I close my eyes. And I'm nine. And I'm surrounded by cigarette smoke. And I'm in a huge living room. One big enough to run around in. Make races with my younger brother. Even play hide and seek. I did a lot of hiding in that apartment.
      Michael's there and he's drinking beer and he's angry. Where he's standing I'm not sure. My mother is drinking and she's antsy. And she moves. Moves. One place to the next... to the next... to the next. I want to tell her to sit down and relax-- but I'm not old enough yet. Not till later will I tell her such things. Now? I just watch her. I pray she doesn't fall over. I pray Michael doesn't push her. They both argue. They both drink. They both are oblivious to my sad eyes. Sweat drops slowly from their brows, one drop from another. My brother sits in the room, in the corner, in his smallness, and he's afraid. He doesn't say it but I know it. He's meek: a mouse without a tail. His eyes: even sadder than mine Sometimes his wet sobs keep me awake at night in the top bunk of our bunk beds. Sometimes I don't hear them and I just fall asleep.
     Mom went out many nights when I was nine. Alchohol was a conquest. Myself: I sat perched on the window pane, staring through the criss-crossed dirty, dusty screen,
a gaze set upon the lonely street of north shore drive, waiting for her to trod along, stumble at times, trip on street corners, in her old, worn down sneakers, the backs pressed down under her white, pinky heels that had a tinge of vinegar she was so proud of.
      Nights on the window pane lasted forever. 'I'm going for cigarettes.' A pack of cigarettes. Always cigarettes. I'd watch her head off, disappear behind the corner shop where bums sat on cracked pavement, forty ouncers between their legs. Michael went on sleeping. He didn't give a damn. Daniel just didn't know. I waited alone...for something.
      Foot-falls and voices were precious. My eyes had pealed back her strut. Her consumption spilled through her motions. Her voice: just as distinct, just as potent. I loved her voice on those nights. I'd catch her rising to our apartment door. I wait on the other side panting like a salivating dog waiting for a lost--Mom. Relieved. She's made it through another night. We've made it through another night. I hug her. And the smell of alchohol licks the air.