The Dream That Answered Her Prayer
The Dream That Answered Her Prayer
A grieving daughter begs God to help her see her alcoholic mother in a new light.
"So we’ll do the service on Saturday morning, right?” I said to my brother David as we stood looking down on the Arkansas River. We’d decided to scatter Mama’s ashes there because the precious few good memories we had of her were connected to water.
The times when she was sober and would join us kids in the rain-swollen creek to catch fish and play with turtles, her contagious giggle rippling over us. Or give us food coloring to put in bottles of water so that we could make rainbows wherever we wanted. Or belt out “Old Man River” right along with the radio.
“Would you say something for Mama, Sissy?” David asked.
Instantly I saw my forty-six-year-old brother again as a three-year-old in droopy training pants asking, “Where did Mama go, Sissy? Why did she leave?” I was nine when Mama first left me, David, our sister Pat, our brother Phil, and Dad for what she seemed to care about most–drinking.
In some ways it came as a relief. No more trips to the Nine-Mile Corner where she’d leave us kids in the car while she went inside to have beers. No more shouting matches between her and Dad, when I’d quietly steal out back with my dog, Shorty, and a blanket and let the low murmuring of the creek soothe me to sleep.
I lay awake many nights replaying in my mind the image of Mama driving away from our Oklahoma farm in a cloud of red dust. I knew her father had passed away when she was young, and I wondered if she had ached to have him hold her the way I ached to feel her arms around me.
Please give me another chance to make her love me, I begged God. But each time Mama returned, it didn’t matter how many pictures of a happy family I drew or how many love letters I wrote to her. Her addiction would always draw her away again, to countless bars in countless towns, searching for a peace she never seemed to find.
By the time I was a young adult, I was tired of trying to win a place in Mama’s heart. I moved out to Colorado and focused my attention on raising my own family. My older brother Phil moved away too, but he succumbed to the same relentless demons Mama had wrestled with, dying as a result of his alcoholism in 1998.
Mama finally stopped denying her drinking problem. But admitting her illness did not make it go away. When David had called me a few weeks earlier, I knew it was taking its final toll.
“Sissy, she’s not eating–just drinking. Won’t let me help her. What should I do?” It took the police’s help to get Mama to let David clean her up and drive her to rehab in Enid, Oklahoma. She died there a few short weeks later.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you with her this time,” I said to David, grimacing at the memory of Mama’s trailer, littered with empty liquor bottles, rotting food and dirty clothes. We’d packed all her worldly belongings in boxes. Soon they would be all we had left of her.
“Yes, I’ll try to write something,” I said in a low voice. “I’ll give it a try.” And I did, but there didn’t seem to be any words left when it came to Mama. How many times had I pleaded for her to come back and be part of our family again? Why hadn’t it made any difference?
Dad had struggled so hard, taking care of our farm and four kids on top of working long hours at the railroad, while Mama poured her love into the bottle. The night before her memorial, I stayed up for hours trying to think of something–anything–to say. But whatever I wrote came out as angry and confused as my feelings. It wasn’t working. The crumpled sheets of paper tumbled over the boxes around me like snowballs.