12 years. I pause here every time just to stack the days up like poker chips that I’ve been hoarding. Lead poker chips, always heavier and colder than I expect. 12 years. Moving in and out. Alcohol. Drugs. Anger. Always so much anger. Leave. Come back. Don’t talk about it. There isn’t anything to do so there isn’t anything to say. Don’t talk about it. Love him. Like he won’t love you. Like he don’t love anyone. Forgive him. Like sunrise. Everyday. Except some days the sun shines brighter. And some days your forgiveness is more convincing than others.
It’s August 15th. Twelve years comes to full close. Now we can talk about it. He’s gone. He’s in rehab. He chose this day. Maybe he thought that he’d make God proud. Anger erupts from every corner of the family. Like it hasn’t been there the whole time. Like it hasn’t hurt the whole time. But this is the first day we say it, out loud, to each other. Can’t take it back now. Can’t say that you don’t know how bad it hurt all of us to wait.
12 years. Nearly half my life spent praying he wouldn’t be crazy, wouldn’t be evil, wouldn’t be selfish, wouldn’t be home. Or that he would be home. 12 years of not knowing what I wanted because we could never say that what we had was stealing our favorite parts of ourselves. 12 years living inside a poker face trying to bluff our family into happiness or at least safety.
And now we have 12 months. In 12 months he’ll be home and we’ll have to figure out what it means to start over. Do we start new? Start at the beginning? Start over? But mostly, will I need these poker chips?
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