Morning Rituals, Little Altars and Prayer Circles

She starts her morning ritual by making coffee.
 She pours her fixture of caffeine into the same coffee mug daily,
 a Xmas gift that used to shout,

 “World's Greatest Mom!”

 After two decades of washings,
 it now just mumbles something to that affect.

She adjusts the pictures and drawings magneted to the fridge.
 They are little altars to and from, her.
 She looks away; it's too much to take in…
 The years haven't provided any space between the action and the deed.
 It still feels fresh.
 It is frozen in time.

Pulling a cigarette out of the pack, she tells herself,
“I'm going to quit tomorrow”
And, she laughs at the lie.

She grabs her keys, which chain a picture, and the memory of “Sarah”…
 Again, she avoids the image.
 It's still too much to take in.

She's off to the same place she goes to every Monday morning,
 a church basement that smells of must, coffee, doughnuts and hope.
In a circle, gathered in a tribe of unifying differences that themes them the same…

Hurt people, fragmented people, self loathing people,
 the person in denial, the cutter, the helper,
 and
 the angels,
 all hold hands
 and
 pray.

“God Grant me the serenity…”

She wills herself up to the front, the slow yearly walk.
 Accepting her 20 year chip,
 a reluctant award she speaks…

“Hello my name is Sully and I'm an alcoholic. I took my last drink 2o years ago today and it was the last time I saw my daughter, Sarah. She would have been 25 years old today if I hadn't passed out in my car and careened into oncoming traffic…”

Something catches in her throat, and she holds it.
 She's not going to cry,
 she swallows
 the pain,
 guilt
 and shame.

She sits down.
 Like adding insult to injury,
 the applause comes,
 and to her,
 it sounds as faked as canned laughter.
No matter how many chips she takes
 or
 the years under her belt,
 it
 will never feel like something to be applauded.

By pj cantu