Like a bad habit
Maybe, maybe not
What’s the point?
It’ll never work
Wanna get something done?
Fat fucking chance.
I must talk to you, or at you.
It’s all very important and cannot wait.
How my toe is aching.
What the annoying co-worker said yeasterday.
That story about what she said twenty years ago.
I must tell you that one at least once a week.
Fuck your work.
You’ll be lucky to type out a sentence by the time
I’m done talking at you.
Fuck your problems, they’re not my problems.
Your problems mean nothing to me today.
There is no one thing more important than
today is the day I lost my Father.
Dump on me some other day when I give a fuck.
Today is not the day.
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning at the bar
When I put out to sea;
But such a tide as, moving, seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell
When I embark;
For though from out the bourne of Time and Place,
The floods may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.”
Fly on Donald.
March 14, 1926 - January 26, 2012
Filled with purpose and good intentions.
How shall I derail today?
Will I be sick with a cold or my fatty liver acting up?
Or will shiny things beckon on the Internet?
Will I look up after just “checking a few things”,
only to see that hours have passed?
Perhaps instead, a few things accomplished.
Itty-bitty steps indeed.
Picture me dancing on the beach.
Picture me curled in a ball in the corner.
Picture me self-destructing yet again.
Slow steps, itty-bitty steps.
Sometimes I trip and fall.
Sometimes I say fuck it and take a nap.
Sometimes a little bit of progress is made.
Three steps forward, two steps back.
Old patterns, worn and grooved.
Changes difficult to make.
Problems hard to see.
You may not remember me, but I will remember you for the rest of my life. I am Prince’s mother. The Prince who died on October 20, 2012. The Prince who died on just his fourth court ordered unsupervised visit with his father.
I watched my son’s body slowly shut down for nearly two days as I waited for the doctors to officially declare him brain dead. As I watched my innocent baby boy die, I thought about you. I remembered how you told us you hated Family Court. I remembered how you blamed me for falling in love with a con man. I remembered how you talked about fairy dust and how you explained that my son would need to come home with cigarette burns before you would believe Luc was abusive. I remember how you rolled your eyes, appeared to fall asleep on the bench, and openned up your computer as if to read your email – you did all of this as I pleaded with you to keep visitations supervised.
One of the hardest things for me to deal with is that I will never again have the chance to protect my son. Nothing I can do will bring him back to life. I can’t stop thinking about how my life would be different if I hadn’t trusted you – if I had fled the country – if I had simply refused to comply with the court order.