Think About the Flower

One of my earliest memories–not the earliest, but the earliest scary memory–is of being in the car with my little sisters while my mother is trying to get the car keys from my drunken father so she can take us all away. My youngest sister was just a baby, so I must have been about six. I have no memory of returning home, but I think my father came to the friend's house the next day, remorseful, and we all came back. She never did that again, but we spent many insecure days and nights dealing with my father's alcoholism. He was never violent–he was a gentle, sweet man, and everyone loved him–and up until the end of his drinking, he always had a job, but there were arrests and some dangerous behaviors.