What are your hopes and dreams for the
future? She says that I sound like one of
her treatment counselors; candid, unsure
like someone waking up from
anesthetization after her life spiraled and
spiraled further from her control, and family
and friends attempted to intervene, to
plead for her to get help, to seek treatment,
and she agreed, but only to placate them,
so that she could eventually resume her
habits, and one by one family and friends
gave up on her, washed their hands of her
or kept her at arm’s length because they
realized that she was not serious, she was
not in control, until someone at the right
time, with the right relationship, said to her,
you come back and you complete what you
started; otherwise, we will be nothing for
the remainder of your addled days, so she
boarded a bus and rode it from Arizona to
Minnesota, taking rips of straight vodka from
a water bottle until she arrived in the bus
depot and had to wait 12 hours for a ride
to the treatment center, trembling because
there was nowhere nearby to buy a refill,
and she didn’t want to venture outside of
the depot’s sanctuary—afraid that she
would run into the wrong man, and he
would offer to buy her a drink, and she
would obviously agree, and then she would
wake up a month later and another person
would no longer take her calls or answer
her apologetic emails, so she waited and
eventually her ride showed up and she
made it to treatment with women who
were attempting to stay out of jail or
attempting to keep their kids, and she
spends time listening to their stories and
sharing her stories and cigarettes with
them, trying to remain humble, to be
patient, to rebuild her dignity, to imagine a
life where one can easily answer a question
about hopes and dreams; she humors me,
for the sake of the conversation, for the
sake of our friendship, because we haven’t
talked in years, because she was avoiding
me, because she was avoiding herself,
because she was avoiding the past—she
doesn’t know, she’s trying to work that out
with her counselor—little by little, day by
day, life is a slow crawl, and it becomes even
slower, when you have to stop and recount
your ignominies with every friendship
you’re trying to resume, apologize for your
failures with every relationship you are
trying to salvage, it is a difficult road,
and I understand how my question
might be exhausting to even attempt a half-
hearted answer, yet she does, Just stay
sober… Maybe find someone who can deal
with me sober… We chat for a little bit longer,
then she says it’s time for dinner, and we
promise to talk later, and I hang up and finish
my wine and head to the kitchen for a refill.
(After reading Diana Hamilton’s “Trance Essay for Remembering Images”)
opusculum 