The last time I saw my mother was 15 years ago. When she entered the greasy walls of the place that was my home.
All I remember is her look of drowsy dismay. And that she had three extra sugars in her tea.
I do remember the preparation up to that day. I bought tea, I hate tea with it's bitter bland taste.
I rummaged in my draws for a dress, or even a plain blouse. But all I found was bleached jeans and moldy cigarettes.
The night before I took my mattress under the sunroof, so the violent buzz of the city rained down on me.
I have so many stories of my mother, my mother the roting flower child, the clumsy house wife, a secondary concern.
And then there was me, her only love in life.
That had let her down.




