Before me, my mother was carefree. And then Suddenly I appeared and she could not deny me. So she held me beautiful baby in her arms, whispering she loved me, while smoothing out my worried wrinkles because I had just met her. Then just as suddenly, we flew up in fury, like the billowing smoke of an industrial chimney.

I remember the night I told her I was coming home After the sun had settled his fight with the moonlight, So she stopped waiting up for me, leaving me free, to be guided by the shining beacon of taxis.

So on this particular night when the sky was already getting light me and my front door had a showdown. I drew my silver key and shoved it through the rusty teeth of the lock. On cue my feet followed me through and the dog began to howl, as I leapt up the stairs, my floorboards were the only ones crying out to me, YOU’RE HOME LATE. I was pleading with my door not to shoot and telling the floorboards to eat dirt when I realized I had one hour left to sleep until I’d have to wake up and prove that the late nights weren’t taking a toll on me.

It was Monday morning as I rose from my deathbed, and I happened to meet my mother at the refrigerator door. We were both reaching for the milk. “Something smells kind of sour.” I said hoping to lighten the mood because I could already feel the tension of an electricity tower streaming through to my ear drums.

My mother did not scream, but she raised her hands to her face, and with the grace of a thousand saints she said, “Daughter, I cannot do this anymore. I cannot do this anymore. If you are going to keep treating your home like a motel room, I will have to start charging the hourly rate, See you’ve been enveloped by a black cloud of smoke, and your once perfect skin is now covered in soot. And I know you once had a place in my womb, and you still have a place in my heart, but I can’t bathe you in the sink until your shoulder blades shine, it’s not like you’re a sweet baby anymore. I can’t push open your door at midnight to whisper love songs and poetry into your ear, because at midnight you are usually gone. And I know that you are an intelligent and independent youth, but I still have a thing or two left I could teach you. When I brought up the fact that our conversations usually sound like a puppy being shoved down a garburator, she said Daughter. 

You were a baby raised up to believe in the architecture of dreaming, so it worries me when you only get a few hours of sleep, you were brought up to believe in the magic that lies beneath our feet. You used to make up stories about friendly monsters just before we went to sleep. When you were in grade four and I ran at your teacher demanding how on earth your painting of an endangered species was NOT the answer to 8 to the power of 3! Daughter let me tell you if creativity is biting off more than you can chew, MOST ADULTS ARE STARVING! And I know that on some days I want you to be a lawyer or a doctor or marry a man with money, but most days i just want you to be happy. 

And with the grace of a thousand saints, before leaving the house, and driving away, she politely asked me if I could refrain from slamming the door the next time I got home at five in the morning.