The Pendant

On the night of my last drunk, I called the only elder in my family who would still speak to me. Not only was she my favorite aunt, she was my only aunt. I hadn’t spoken to her for years and, slurring my words, I asked if I could send my two grown sons to live with her. I felt sure that I had messed them up beyond repair. There was a sheriff’s sign on my door. I was living on food stamps. I had been fired from my job and I was making irrational plans to hitch a pop-up camper to my little pickup truck and would just drive away from my life. I no longer wanted to be a mother or nurse. I no longer wanted to have a house or responsibilities. I no longer wanted to live.