LIFE CHANGES
Living With Our Heads in the Clouds
When all else fails, there’s always a bunny
“That one’s a turtle on a surfboard!”
My mother and I are sitting on an old wooden bench on the boundary of a small park.
If I were to look behind us, I would risk making eye contact with the observant and ever-watchful group of doctors, nurses, and social workers. I would be faced with the imposing red brick walls of the inpatient rehab clinic with barred windows that never open. My mother's temporary, court-mandated home.
Looking to the right would mean seeing the boundary wall. Years ago someone decided that it would be a good idea to have the residents paint a mural on it, a giant rainbow serpent that snaked along the boundary, weaving through messages of hope and recovery. That was during the first time my mother stayed here. Somewhere on that wall is a message in the neat cursive of my mother's sober hand;
“The love for my children and my God will see me through.”
I stopped looking for it about three relapses ago.
Surrounded by painful reminders of the past, the hardships of the present, and uncertainty in the future — we look up instead. Pointing out the shapes we see in the clouds.